


Face/Off

by sunstarunicorn



Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [61]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Unexpected Allies, cop killer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:00:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 43,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26995570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: While Greg and Team One struggle with the fallout of the prior year, a new mob boss appears on the Toronto crime scene.  Even as the SRU races to stop him, he starts a war that may well bring the whole city crashing down.  A war with a criminal that even the best of cops fears to cross…
Relationships: Ed Lane/Sophie Lane
Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [61]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/538363
Comments: 45
Kudos: 8





	1. The Rise of Castor Troy

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the sixty-first in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "Greatest of These".
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_.
> 
> Quick note for those of you reading this on October 13th, 2020: If you haven't read the seventh chapter Epilogue for "Greatest of These", please go read that now before you jump into this story. I usually only post one chapter on Tuesdays and one chapter on Fridays, but my glee has gotten the better of me today.

The day after the SRU annual picnic, Ed raided Sophie’s stash of Clark’s discarded school supplies for pens, pencils, and one of the nicer notebooks. He wasn’t sure why Sophie still kept the old supplies, but it was making his fledgling investigation easier, so he wasn’t about to complain. Notebook in hand, the sniper headed for his garage and spread his pilfered materials out on the hood of his SUV.

His plan was simple. Over the weekend, he would make notes on what he knew about the ‘team sense’. On Monday, he would hunt down either Revan or Greg; the former for more intel on Wild Magic in general and the latter to run his ideas by. He’d spent most of the picnic and his evening baby-sitting Izzy thinking over everything Greg had said and come to a conclusion. For the sake of Greg’s mental health, if nothing else, something had to give. Something had to change or Greg’s conscience was going to rip him to shreds, no matter _what_ his teammates did. Greg was too good a leader, too good a _friend_ , to just ‘get over’ violating his team’s free will. Even if his friend _never_ did so, the potential alone…it was devastating.

But if he and Greg could find a way for the Boss to wriggle out from under that particular... _component_ … to the ‘team sense’, then they could move forward. It would take time for Greg to recover from the emotional fallout, but Ed was sure his friend would get better. _If_ they could remove the largest obstacle to that recovery. With that in mind, Ed bent over the notebook, writing swiftly in Narnian – there was no way he was going to let Sophie find out about _this_ problem. She really _would_ take Greg’s head off if she did.

* * * * *

As morning edged into afternoon, the lean man straightened from his hunched over position, grimacing and knuckling his back to work out the kinks. Gah; if only the SUV sat as high as the trucks…that would be a much better writing surface. As a portion of his mind mentally groaned and griped over the pain in his lower back, Ed inspected his progress, letting his gaze linger on several more important sections of his note-taking while he organized his thoughts and a few tentative conclusions.

First off, it was plain as day to see that _most_ of the ‘team sense’ was every bit the advantage they’d grudgingly come to accept. Although Ed _still_ couldn’t figure out how wanting Greg to _live_ after the Netherworld had ended with them _surrendering_ their free will! Greg hadn’t wanted that, _they_ hadn’t wanted that, so how – and _why_ – had it happened? Unless…

The team leader paused, nudging at his sudden idea, a deep frown crossing his face. Unless Greg had really, _truly_ been _beyond_ any form of help, magical or otherwise. Internally he shuddered, remembering, vividly, how both Greg’s soul and body had been dying, _right in front of them_ , despite the best the goblins could do. What if the _only_ way to save Greg _had_ been to magically _bind_ them. Bind _their_ souls to Greg’s until his core could recover. Another temporary solution? Except…by the time Greg had been _stable_ enough to not _need_ the bindings any longer, it had been too late. Temporary had, once again, become permanent.

Just a theory and yet Ed felt a chill up his back, as if the magic within him was in agreement. Confirming his awful, awful suspicions. Scowling at his notes, the sniper flipped to a fresh page and started writing again – painful as it was, he needed to record _everything_ , even the theories, if they were going to solve this. And, terrible as his idea was, Ed’s turbulent emotions settled. If that had been the _only_ way to save his best friend, then so be it. Yes, he wanted that surrendered free will back, but he wanted Greg alive _more_. Maybe, just _maybe_ , he could have both.

* * * * *

Sophie came to get him for dinner, eyeing the notebook that her husband carried inside with curiosity. Ed set the research aside, focusing on his family and simply letting the back of his mind mull and muse on the problem while he himself enjoyed a rare evening off. Sophie had started recruiting Clark for more baby-sitting, determined that, despite their age differences, Clark and Izzy were going to bond as _siblings_. Even if Clark _did_ complain about the baby spit on his favorite polo.

To Ed’s surprise, Sophie brought the pilfered notebook into the living room, one eyebrow up. “Since when are you writing in other languages, Eddie?”

Blue narrowed and he snatched the notebook away from her. “Since when are you prying at my work stuff?” he countered.

At the angry set to his jaw and the dangerous gleam in his eyes, Sophie deflated. “Just, please, Eddie, tell me it’s not another problem with Greg.”

Ed winced at the reminder of the havoc Greg’s gryphon side had caused, but he couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ , lie to her. “Soph…” He sighed, running a hand over his head. “He’s in bad shape emotionally. Last week, Toth comes in to suspend him, then leaves the paperwork with him, saying he had a week to decide whether or not he was gonna sign it.”

Her dark eyes widened. “Did he burn it?”

A bitter laugh. “Sophie, I thought he would, but he didn’t. He almost signed it.” Lowering his gaze to the notebook, Ed added quietly, “He needs help, but for me to help him, Soph, I gotta figure out _how_.”

“And you don’t want me to know, do you?”

The sniper winced and shook his head.

Sophie’s silence was telling; she _wasn’t_ happy with him. Then she spoke. “Okay, Eddie, I won’t pry. Just…”

He glanced up. “Just?”

A sorrowful look. “Just make sure you take care of yourself, too.” _And us,_ her eyes seemed to say.

“I will, Soph.”

* * * * *

On Sunday morning, Ed was back at it, though he’d moved inside to spare his lower back the agony of a long, hunched-over-the-hood-of-an-SUV session. He skimmed his page of theories; in addition to his theory of a _temporary_ solution gone _permanent_ , he’d had another thought. What if…what if it _was_ still temporary – Greg hadn’t exactly gone easy on his damaged core, what with his stunt to save Roy and his later two stunts to save Wordy. Plus whatever havoc that blasted gryphon and Fletcher Stadium had wrecked on an already unstable magical core.

Another theory he was bouncing around concerned the ‘re-establishment’ of the links after Fletcher Stadium. Maybe…maybe _before_ that, everything had been in the realm of ‘temporary’, only to go ‘permanent’ when he and his teammates had _accepted_ the new ‘team sense’. He huffed a sigh. Some of it might be right, all of it might be wrong. There was just no way to _know_ and that bugged him. He liked having answers. Plus, theories about _how_ they’d gotten in this pickle didn’t give him any ideas for how to get _out_ of said pickle.

Flipping to the next page, Ed clicked his pen and started a new section. In the course of all the theories, he’d started wondering. How had _Greg_ found out what he could do? His friend didn’t _think_ like that; it _never_ would’ve occurred to him to _command_ them magically because he didn’t _need_ to. While it was possible that Greg had stumbled on the ability by accident, Ed rather doubted it; he _suspected_ that the first ‘one’ to use magical commands had been the _gryphon_. It would fit with his memories of the last chain of events at Fletcher Stadium; Greg losing control, falling even as his own throat locked in place – a magical command? But his boss remembered _none_ of that; even _now_ , he didn’t remember anything after his farewell/suicide note. So someone must have _told_ him.

Horror surged within Ed; someone had _told_ Greg about his awful, horrid ability. Told him and promptly left him on his own to deal with the emotional fallout. Anger stirred, a roiling fury at the unknown informant. No _wonder_ his boss had gotten so squirky with orders, no _wonder_ he’d gone to extreme lengths to avoid _accidental_ magical orders. And no wonder it had all happened overnight. Right. After. Fletcher. Stadium. Greg had known and he must’ve been _terrified_ ; he’d over-reacted to be sure, but Ed didn’t think he would’ve done any better. They were just lucky that Greg was so honorably stubborn – the incredible _temptation_ that sort of power represented…

 _I’m not better than you, Greg. You have this power and you hate it. You_ hate _it because it hurts_ us _. You’ll never use it because it hurts_ us _._ Sorrow flashed in blue eyes. _You’re the best of us, boss; I just wish you’d see it._

* * * * *

By the afternoon, Ed had finished his notes and was massaging his cramped writing hand. Owww… He was _not_ used to writing that much anymore; even the worst stack of paperwork was mostly filling in blanks and maybe a paragraph of narrative. Still, the team leader was satisfied with his progress. A bit of analysis, a few theories, and some speculation that Greg could possibly confirm. He’d even rounded off his notes with a list of the ‘team sense’ abilities, not that he expected the list to be much help in solving the whole magical orders problem.

Speaking in other languages topped his list – it was _definitely_ from the Wild Magic; all three Parker-Calvins had known Narnian without hardly trying, although it had taken Greg a bit longer than the kids to pick up on how to magically ‘translate’ foreign languages into English. Or was it Italian for Greg? Whatever, didn’t matter. Ironically, for all that the kids had almost instinctively known how to translate _to_ English, _Greg_ had been the one who’d developed the knack for making it go the _other_ way.

Ed wasn’t as sure about the emotion sensing, but that had been there from the beginning for Greg, even before the Netherworld. A side effect of the original ‘team sense’ that had carried over to the later two versions? Definitely plausible; the goblins _had_ admitted right up front that their boss would have permanent ‘damage’ from the original ‘injury’.

Frowning, he inspected the next two items on his list. The telepathy – he shuddered – and Greg’s uncanny ability to track his teammates. He wasn’t sure if the latter dated to before the Netherworld, though it definitely had turned up _afterwards_. Frankly, the team leader regarded the tracking as the ‘team sense’s most _valuable_ ability, even _if_ wards tended to screw it up more often than not. As for the telepathy – again, he shuddered – if he’d had his druthers, it never would’ve cropped up at all, never mind starting off as a ‘sneak preview’ and re-appearing to ruin his post-takedown high. Still, in practical terms, it was just as useful as the tracking; moreso, if it could bypass wards that tended to block Greg’s tracking talents.

Of course, all of this assumed that Greg would be amenable to using the ‘team sense’ on a regular basis – unlikely until his friend’s emotional state improved. Or until they solved the whole magical orders problem. Part of Ed wished he could pull more of their teammates in on the issue, but he’d given Greg his _word_. To go back on _that_ , particularly when Greg had trusted _him_ enough to vent – not a good idea.

The team leader skimmed through his notes one last time, then nodded and took the notebook out to his car. He could show it to Greg after the debrief and get his friend’s permission to sound Revan out. Without more intel, they couldn’t solve the problem and they _had_ to solve it. Before Greg broke.

* * * * *

On Monday morning, Ed arrived at the barn a bit earlier than normal. If he could get his notes to Greg _before_ shift, then Greg could look them over and they could get started on intel gathering that much sooner. The team leader parked his SUV, dug out the hidden notebook, and clambered out, glancing around for any other early arrivals. Even in the SRU-only parking lot, some guys never seemed to learn how to drive.

Heading for the building, he flipped the notebook open, absently scanning his notes for any more possible additions. Caught up in his musing and plotting, he registered the quick tap against the ‘team sense’, almost as if Greg was doing a quick check on where his teammates were, but spared it no more than a split second of consideration. A sudden idea on another possible avenue of investigation drew Ed to a halt inside the atrium; he took advantage of a handy pillar as a makeshift writing surface, plucking a pen from where he’d tucked it in the spine.

A locker door slammed, followed by a furious, “What do you think you’re _doing_ , _Sergeant_?”

Ed snapped sideways, almost dropping his notebook. That had been _Holleran_. The team leader took off, racing past the dispatcher desk – and a bewildered Kira – towards the locker room. One shoulder smashed the locker room’s door open; he skidded to a halt at the sight inside.

Greg clutched a liquor bottle possessively as he stood, pinned against the locker next to his and glaring as best he could at their commander; blood-shot eyes made it crystal clear he was _drunk_ , as did the slur as he replied, “Gitt’n re’dy for shift, s’r.”

In a low, dangerous tone, Commander Holleran asked, “And you need _vodka_ to do that?”

The Sergeant managed a sloppy shrug; the bottle cap squeaked as he unscrewed it.

“Greg, what the heck?” Ed blurted, drawing both men’s attention.

“M’rning, Eddie,” the drunken man replied, struggling to salute his team leader with his bottle.

Holleran grabbed for the bottle; Greg yanked it back, taking a swing with his opposite fist. In one fluid move, the graying commander hauled his subordinate forward, twisting him around and slamming him down on his knees; how Greg kept his grip on the vodka, Ed hadn’t a clue. Fury blazed in the commander’s dark eyes. “Suspension, Sergeant _Parker_ ,” he hissed.

Greg snorted, clearly uninterested in anything besides his precious bottle of vodka.

His heart thudded in his chest, but he couldn’t just _stand_ there and do _nothing_ to help his boss. His friend, his brother in all but blood. “Sir, all due respect, what about rehab?” Ed suggested, edging farther into the locker room.

“Wh’ s’ys I w’nt reh’b?” Greg slurred.

“Shut up, Greg.”

“M’k’ me, Eddie.” And yet, Parker happily knocked the loose cap off his vodka and took a swig of the burning liquid within, completely ignoring his commander and his subordinate.

Until, that was, Ed snatched the vodka away, ignoring the aborted protest from his boss. “Stop it, Greg; you’re better than this.”

The Sergeant snorted, grimacing as he fought to break free from Holleran’s hold and retrieve his bottle of vodka. Lane backed away, taking the bottle with him and getting it well out of his friend’s range.

Forcing his voice to remain steady, Ed growled, “Greg, if you don’t go to rehab, I’ll make _sure_ you _never_ see _any_ of us _ever_ again. Understand?” A gamble, but if some of his theories were _correct_ …

Greg froze, wide hazel snapping up to Ed’s enraged blue. Convulsively, the Sergeant swallowed, Adam’s Apple bobbing. Then, as if the threat had cleared the haze from the stocky man’s mind, he said, “You drive a hard bargain, Eddie.”

“You’ll go?”

It took a long moment for Greg to slump, but he did. “Okay, Ed, you win. I’ll go.”

Coldly, Commander Holleran yanked his subordinate to his feet. “Come with me, _Sergeant_ , and we’ll _discuss_ the terms of your _theoretical_ return to duty.” Brown eyes shifted to Ed, softening. “Constable, I’ll let Kira know when to send you in.” Jerking his head at the locker, Holleran added, “And make sure there’s nothing left in there.”

“Yes, sir,” Ed whispered, unable to look at Greg as Holleran dragged him out. Why, why, _why_? How could Greg do this to them?

Unable to answer that question, Ed set the bottle of vodka down on the bench and searched Greg’s locker from top to bottom. By the time he was done, five more bottles had joined the first and the team leader was utterly, completely _numb_.

This _couldn’t_ be happening. But it _was_ …

* * * * *

Resignation shone in Ed Lane’s blue eyes as he regarded the paperwork in front of him. “You want me to be Team One’s new Sergeant?”

Commander Holleran sighed, folding his hands beneath his chin. “You’re the best choice, Ed. I can’t afford to leave Team One without an active Sergeant and allowing Parker to remain as Sergeant…” He shook his head.

Much as he hated it, Ed understood. There were no guarantees that Greg was even coming _back_ , much less as their Sergeant. To leave Greg on the roster…it meant implying that Greg _was_ coming back, that he would be forgiven and given his old job back as though he _hadn’t_ just broken trust with his entire team – not to mention his boss.

“What happens to Greg?”

A curious gleam appeared in Holleran’s dark eyes. “If he complies with the conditions I’ve set, he’ll have a place here, _Sergeant_ Lane. But he will no longer be Team One’s Sergeant.”

Part of Ed wanted to deny this was happening. To wake up from this awful nightmare where his friend had buried himself in a bottle _again_. But… The truth was, maybe he’d been too late. Maybe he’d been too slow to catch on and Greg had already been on his way down. Maybe nothing could have stopped that fall. A nasty voice whispered that it could’ve been worse – he could’ve walked in to find Greg slumped over with his service pistol in a lax death grip.

Feeling as though his world was being ripped in two, Ed swallowed hard, nodded, and signed the paperwork. Commander Holleran took the folder back, inspecting his signature, then added his own. A pair of sergeant’s chevrons were produced and pushed across the desk. “Kira will help you stitch those on, Sergeant Lane, and I’ll speak to Commander Locksley about expediting your promotion magic-side. For now, let’s have Team One run as a six-man team. Once you get used to handling your new role, we’ll discuss recruiting a new member.”

“Yes, sir,” Ed whispered. Still numb, he pushed himself up and turned for the door.

“Ed.”

Aching sorrow and grief turned back; Holleran’s gaze darkened with that same sorrow. “You earned this. We would’ve been discussing your promotion even if Parker _hadn’t_ pulled that stunt. You are _not_ being given this out of _pity_ or to keep a familiar leader on your team. Do you understand?”

The new Sergeant’s breath caught and he nodded, a bit less numb than before. “Thank you, sir.”

* * * * *

Kira sniffled as she helped the newest SRU Sergeant stitch his new chevrons in place. “I’ll miss him,” she murmured.

“He’s not dead,” Ed replied, almost as much for his own benefit as hers.

“I know, but…”

Ed could only gaze at her in equal sorrow. Even if Greg, by some miracle, came back, it would never be the same. To tell the team what had happened, he dreaded it, but it was absolutely, completely unavoidable. As soon as they came in, as soon as they saw the chevrons on his uniform, they would know.

On his belt, his Auror badge warmed and he pulled it off, absently triggering its transformation back to a badge wallet before opening it up. Everything was the same, except for his rank, which now read Auror _Sergeant_ instead of Auror Constable. A stone sank into his gut. It was done, Greg was gone, out of the SRU, almost certainly for good.

_Why, Greg, why? Why would you do that, why would you leave us?_

* * * * *

Ed stayed out of the briefing room while his teammates assembled. No need to do it one at a time, no, he could do it all at once. Get it all out at once so they could hear the truth. The truth that the man they all trusted – had betrayed them. Bitterness pooled, along with regret that he hadn’t known _before_. Maybe, maybe, maybe he could’ve prevented this if only he’d _known_. If only Greg had told him _before_ about the ‘team sense’. Part of him wanted to tell them _everything_ , but he knew he wouldn’t. He’d given Greg his _word_ and that meant something. Just because _Greg_ had turned on _him_ didn’t mean _he_ had to turn on _Greg_.

Once his teammates – his _constables_ and gah, how utterly strange and _off_ that sounded – were in the briefing room, the new Sergeant fingered the bottle in his hands and walked in, not bothering to hide his sorrow. Dead silence hung as Team One took in Ed’s expression and saw the chevrons on his uniform.

“Ed, is that Sarge’s uniform?” Wordy asked, the awful hope in his voice almost more than Ed could bear.

Instead of responding, Ed reached out and set the bottle down firmly on the table. The same bottle of vodka that Greg had been guzzling that morning, the same bottle that Holleran had caught him with, and the same bottle that Ed had snatched away from his friend. “As of this morning,” the sniper began heavily, “Sergeant Parker is no longer on this team. In fact, he may not even be a sergeant anymore; I forgot to ask.”

The constables’ eyes widened. “Ed, what _happened_?” Jules cried.

“Commander Holleran caught him in the locker room,” Ed replied simply, indicating the vodka. “He was drunk, guys, so bad he was slurring his words. Holleran tried to get the bottle away and he took a swing at him. He’s off the team and Commander Holleran promoted me.”

Disbelief swept the room, coupled with horror and dismay, but none of them questioned their new Sergeant. Although the ‘team sense’ had blinded each and every one of them to how bad it was getting, they’d still _noticed_. Which just made Ed’s gut churn and twist all the more. They’d _noticed_ , but they hadn’t bloody well _done_ anything about it. Why, why, why? Why hadn’t they done anything, why had they _let_ Greg _fall_?

Blue eyes shifted back to the bottle and he shuddered. This bottle…it was just as much _their_ fault as it was _Greg’s_ ; they’d let the best of them fall, let him carry shame and guilt and self-hatred until he _shattered_.

_What have we done?_

Grief shone, but Ed forced himself to clear his throat and continue. “Commander Holleran promoted me in Parker’s place, so we’ll need a new team leader.”

“What about…” Lou stopped, pain running across his face.

Lean shoulders slumped. “For now, Lou, we run as a six-man team. Once I’ve gotten used to being Sergeant, we’ll see. Holleran’s orders.”

All protest died at the last sentence. If Commander Holleran was waiving the seven-man team requirement, then that was that. The constables exchanged looks and a faint hope glimmered in Sam’s eyes, but Ed already knew who the choice would be.

“Wordy.” Spike, right on cue.

“Seconded,” Lou concurred.

The brunet swallowed hard, but nodded, glancing over at Sam and Jules. Jules flicked a regretful look to her boyfriend, then returned her attention to Wordy. “Thirded,” she whispered, acknowledging the obvious. Sam had broken trust with the team – he would never be their team leader; Wordy might’ve hidden his Parkinson’s, but he had _not_ violated SRU policy.

Best friends locked gazes, the new Sergeant and the equally new team leader. Both wished it had never come to this and both knew nothing would ever be the same again. Then Wordy drew in a shuddering breath. “Sam? Backup team leader.”

“Copy,” the blond replied.

Gray eyes shifted to their techs. “Spike, Lou, I want you swapping off who’s in the truck. We’re down to six, so we’re going to have to cross-train more.”

Sorrowful, they accepted that with twin nods.

Drawing in a deep breath, Wordy turned to their final member. “We’re all trained to negotiate, Jules, but now you’re primary.”

“We need a new backup negotiator,” Jules filled in. Speculation shone in her dark eyes. “Give me some time?”

“Sure thing,” Wordy agreed.

“Okay,” Ed broke in. “Everyone except Wordy, hit the workout room. Holleran moved us to secondary today, so keep that in mind.” Blue met gray and Ed tried for a smile. “Come on, Word, let’s go get the team leader paperwork done.”

“You got it…Boss.”

 _Boss._ At least Word hadn’t said _Sarge_. Ed wasn’t sure he could take that. Not yet…maybe not _ever_.

_Why Greg…why did you do it?_

* * * * *

He and Wordy headed for their former Sergeant’s apartment together, wary of meeting the man, but Commander Holleran had ordered Wordy to pick up Greg’s two teenagers. With Greg headed for rehab, the kids needed a place to live – they could _hardly_ live by _themselves_. As Wordy was already listed as next in line for the kids’ guardianship, he and Shelley were the natural choice.

Ed frowned to himself; sure Wordy was the natural choice, but wasn’t Holleran moving a bit _fast_? Unless Holleran didn’t want to leave the kids alone with a drunk ex-Sergeant. Definitely a possibility. The brand-new Sergeant flicked his gaze forward to a grim Wordy; neither of them were looking forward to telling the kids what had happened or what the fallout was going to be.

Clenching his fists, Wordy halted in front of Greg’s door. He reached out and knocked, but no one answered. The door was locked, forcing the two men to fumble for the spare keys their ex-boss had given them. Ed dug his out first and unlocked the door. A swift check proved that no one was in the apartment, which was a surprise; Lane had honestly expected to find Greg halfway down another bottle. On the kitchen table, there were two letters, marked with the kids’ names, but there was no other sign that Greg had even come back to his apartment after getting kicked out of the SRU.

“Word, see if you can find any more bottles,” Ed ordered.

“Copy,” the brunet acknowledged unhappily before stalking away to search the apartment.

Left behind, Ed let out his breath in a soft, regretful sigh. His eyes slid closed when he heard the unmistakable sounds of a key in the front door’s lock. Bunk. He’d been hoping to have a few more minutes before facing the kids…

Blue swung around, resignation shining in them. The door to the apartment creaked open, Alanna calling, “Uncle Greg, we’re home!”

How could Greg do this to them? Bad enough that he’d done this to the _team_ , but to his _kids_? Grief clenched his chest. His jaw worked, but no sound came from his throat. Instead, the former team leader and now Sergeant watched as Lance and Alanna trailed in, registering _his_ presence instead of their _uncle’s_ at once. Numb, he watched as they recoiled in fear, silently pleading with him for their uncle to be _alive_.

“Ed.”

His eyes swung up to a grim Wordy, standing just behind the teens. “How many?” he managed.

“I’ve found eight so far and that was just in his bedroom,” the brunet reported, anger glimmering.

“What’s going on?” Alanna asked anxiously, swinging between the two adults.

Ed pulled in a shuddering lungful of air and forced the words out as he crouched to meet the teenager’s gaze. “This morning, Commander Holleran caught your uncle with alcohol.” Sorrow draped his frame. “I found another five bottles in his locker.”

Dismay and disbelief blazed from Alanna, but Lance’s expression twisted in anger. “Where is he?” the young man demanded.

“Holleran sent him to rehab after Ed talked Parker into it,” Wordy replied, his own fury vibrating. “You two are coming home with me.”

“Uncle Greg wouldn’t do this!” Alanna insisted, turning on her brother. “He wouldn’t! Lance, you _know_ he wouldn’t do this!”

Lance didn’t reply and Ed’s heart sank. Alanna might’ve missed Greg’s emotional state, but Lance, quite plainly, had not. But like any child, Lance hadn’t had a _clue_ of what to do, how to help. Nor had it been the teenager’s _job_ to help; no, it was _Greg’s_ job to help the _kids_ , to put them first, no matter what.

Meeting both their gazes, the newest SRU Sergeant said, “Look, you two go with Wordy; he’ll look after you right now. We’re _not_ giving up on him, I promise, but right now, rehab is where he’s going and rehab is where he needs to _be_ if he’s ever going to come home.” He stopped, watching their faces. “You have my _word_ ; I will never give up on him and I’ll keep trying to reach him for as _long_ as it takes.”

 _I promise, Greg; I failed you once, I_ won’t _fail you again._

* * * * *

One last thing remained to be done. Ed dialed the number he’d gotten from his former boss’s address book, listening to the other end ring before it picked up with a quick, “Hello?”

“Marina?”

“Ed!” Delight spilled down the line, the blonde’s genuine joy audible.

Despite the technical breach in policy her relationship with Greg represented – not to mention the spell that had obliterated Parker’s original six-month no contact agreement, Marina Levin had been very good for his friend. The few times Ed had seen the pair together, Marina had brought out the best in Greg, supporting him in ways he’d rarely – if _ever_ – been supported before. Though she was still working past her issues from the stalking and the hot call that had brought her into their lives, Marina seemed to know when to push and when to back off, just like Greg.

The only fly in the romantic ointment had been the kids. Or rather, Marina’s response to ‘not immediately being introduced to them’. Despite peace offering after peace offering from the pair, Marina had made no secret of the fact that she didn’t like Greg’s _nipotes_ and very much wanted them out of her – and by extension – _Greg’s_ life. Though his friend hadn’t yet dropped an ultimatum regarding the blonde’s behavior, Ed had known it was coming. After all, family came first for Greg. Always and forever. At least…that was what Ed had always _thought_. Now…now he wasn’t so sure. _Why, Greg, why?_

“Listen, Marina, do you have a minute?”

“Of course,” Marina reassured the sniper. “I’m just finishing up a few things at work.”

Ed swallowed hard, hating what he had to do, what he had to tell her. “Well, um, the reason I’m calling is, um…” _Just spit it out, Lane!_ “…we caught Greg drinking today.”

For a moment, she stilled. “Drinking?”

“Vodka.” Ed forced the word out, around a lump. “There were five more bottles in his locker and eight in his bedroom at the apartment.”

“But he _never_ drinks,” Marina cried. “He doesn’t even want me bringing any alcohol over to the apartment!”

“Yeah.” A rasp. “That’s what we all thought, Marina. It…it was just lucky that Holleran caught him before he went on-duty today.”

“Where…where is he?”

“Rehab,” Ed said simply. “I’d give you the number, but Holleran doesn’t want anyone outside of Team One to have it.” He left out that the commander had extracted a promise that no one would call Greg while on-duty. “I’ll…I’ll keep you updated, Marina.”

“Yes, thank you, Ed,” she whispered before hanging up.

Hanging up himself, the newest SRU Sergeant choked back an irrational sob before heading back inside his house. Maybe a few hours with Clark and Izzy would take his mind off the situation…

* * * * *

“Tryin’ ag’in, Eddie?” Greg slurred and his former team leader cringed. In the week since Greg’s collapse back into alcoholism, the new Sergeant had called his friend every day, desperately trying to understand and even more desperately trying to _reach_ Greg. It wasn’t working; even in _rehab_ , Greg was somehow getting ahold of enough alcohol to get drunk on, slurring his way through every conversation and hurling insults at his former teammates.

“Greg, I’m not giving up on you,” Ed countered firmly. “Maybe you’re giving up on _us_ , but _I’m_ not giving up on _you_. That’s a promise, Boss.”

The other man snorted and audibly took a swig of his drink. “S’ wh’t’s th’ ‘rgum’nt th’s t’m’, Eddie?”

His throat tightened. “Why, Greg? Why’d you do it? I…” The words choked off.

“Wh’ y’u _th’nk?_ ” Greg snarled, the effect ruined by the slur and clear struggle to stay conscious.

Leaning against the wall, Ed forced the sorrow back. “Greg, I was going to help. I was trying to find a way _out_.”

“M’yb’ I l’k’ th’s w’y better.” Another gurgle of liquid and an exaggerated swallow; Ed hated that sound with all his heart.

“You _like_ hurting your _kids_ this way?” Ed sneered. “You _like_ leaving them with Wordy, wondering what they did _wrong_?”

Silence. Ed could still hear his boss’s heavy breathing, soaked with alcohol, but maybe, just _maybe_ , the first tinges of guilt. Then, roughly, with no slur at all, Greg countered, “It’s safer for them there,” and hung up before Ed could respond.

Quizzically, the Sergeant stared at his phone. _Safer?_

* * * * *

The next day, Ed heard the first rumors from Troy Vio. Whispers about a new crime boss in Toronto’s underworld, one whom even the _criminals_ feared and viewed as utterly ruthless. One eyebrow hiked as he regarded Troy. “So this guy’s a bit scarier than some of the other scum bags out there. So what?”

Troy didn’t smile. “My old training officer called to warn me about this guy; he’s been retired for six years.”

The other brow rose. “How does your old training officer know about a new guy?”

His fellow Sergeant shook his head. “No idea, but he was scared, Ed. He told me to stay away from this guy. Told me to keep my guys away if I valued their lives.”

Lane blinked, then frowned thoughtfully. “So who is this new guy anyway?”

Troy shrugged. “His name’s Castor Troy.”

“ _Troy_?”

The other man flushed. “I know…just a coincidence, though.”

Lane considered, then nodded once. Oddly enough, the name sounded…familiar. In a vague, distant sort of way, as though Ed had only heard it in passing. The sniper considered, then glanced back at his fellow Sergeant. “Can you get back in touch with your old training officer?”

“Get some more details?” Troy filled in.

A sharp nod. “If this _new_ guy is an _old timer_ , then that means he knows cops.”

“He knows what we can do,” Troy breathed.

“Not entirely,” Ed mused. “But he knows more than most. We’ll have to be more careful.”

Troy nodded agreement. A dangerous crime boss meant he would probably end up being _their_ problem. It didn’t get much more high risk than a ruthless criminal with a horde of goons just as brutal as _he_ was.

* * * * *

An hour later, Ed swung down from his truck, wincing internally. He’d hoped for a few more days’ grace before _his_ team plunged into hot calls again. Unfortunately, the criminals of Toronto were singularly uninterested in giving any of them a break. “Lou, what do we got?”

From the Command Truck, Lou replied, “Uniforms say the woman was walking down the street, minding her own business, and this guy just grabbed her, put a gun to her head, and demanded SRU Team One.”

Both brows shot up. “Demanded _us_ specifically?”

“Yep. I’m running him now, see if we crossed his path before.”

“Ed?”

The sniper paused. “Go ahead, Jules.”

Audibly grimacing, Jules reported, “He wants to talk to Team One’s Sergeant.”

Lane’s breath caught. “He wants Greg.”

“I think so.”

And Greg…Greg wasn’t an option any more. “Okay, Jules, I’m coming to you.”

“Sam, up high,” Wordy ordered. “Cover the Boss.”

“Copy,” the blond acknowledged coldly. “I’m almost to a Scorpio position.”

“Spike, with me,” their team leader added.

“He makes a move, you’ve got Scorpio,” Ed interjected. “He wanted us here, he wants to talk to Greg, something’s not right.”

“Ed, wait till Sam’s in position,” Wordy spoke up. “He sees you instead of Parker…”

Understanding his friend’s silent concern, Ed halted and stayed behind the trucks until Sam confirmed he had the solution. Then he strode out, joining Jules behind a sheltering concrete planter. Jules should’ve had someone with her, holding a shield – they’d have to keep that in mind for the next hot call.

Raising his voice, Ed called, “I’m Sergeant Ed Lane with the Strategic Response Unit. I understand you wanted to talk to me?”

From behind his victim, the scraggly, unshaven man stared at him, bewildered. “I want _Parker_ ,” he yelled.

Blue and brown met for a split second, aching sorrow in both gazes. They wanted him, too. Shifting back to the subject, Ed replied, “I’m sorry, sir, but Greg Parker isn’t with the SRU anymore. I’m Team One’s new Sergeant.”

He drew breath to say more, but the subject snarled in wordless frustration and hurled his hostage down, bringing the gun around to point towards Ed and Jules. An instant later, the man fell, Sam’s bullet through his skull.

* * * * *

After the debrief and before he could sneak home, Commander Holleran called him into his office. Ed sidled in, still unused to _this_ portion of his new job. Instead of reporting to _Greg_ , he was reporting directly to _Holleran_. The commander looked up from his work and indicated the chair in front of his desk.

“Ed, I don’t bite, no matter _what_ Greg may have told you.”

At the wry tease, Ed relaxed a touch. “No, sir,” he agreed earnestly, dropping down into the chair.

Once he was down, Holleran asked, “How are you settling in, Ed?”

A pang ran through his chest, along with confusion. This _wasn’t_ about the hot call? “It’s…it’s hard right now, sir.”

Sympathy shone. “Ed, I understand, believe me. I never would’ve expected it of him, either.”

Involuntarily, the sniper’s fists clenched. “I keep…” He stopped, then closed his eyes and forced the words out. “I keep wondering what I did wrong.”

“Nothing.” Holleran’s voice was sharp, commanding. “ _You_ did _nothing_ wrong, Ed.” He paused, eyeing his subordinate, then moved on. “I heard about the hot call today; is it true the subject was looking for Greg?”

“Yes, sir.”

Behind the commander’s glasses, dark eyes narrowed. Then he shook his head and changed the subject. “How is the team adjusting?”

Ed managed a faint smile, accepting the conversation pivot. “It’s rough on them right now, too, sir. The call today…it was awkward, even without that guy looking for Greg; I kept looking for him and we forgot to have someone shielding Jules.”

Holleran winced, but didn’t comment.

Lane swallowed hard, eyes lowering rather than continue. He said nothing about the fact that none of his constables called him ‘Sarge’ and only called him ‘Boss’ when they had to; he was grateful for that. It would be months before he’d be comfortable with either nickname.

After a moment, Commander Holleran nodded, a quiet sigh escaping. Reaching down to a drawer, he pulled out a file. “I assume you’ve heard some of the rumors floating around?”

Blue sharpened, recalling his conversation with Troy before the hot call. “Castor Troy, sir?”

Holleran flinched. “Yes, him.” The lanky commander rose, adjusting his glasses with his free hand; the hand that held the folder trembled.

“Sir?” Ed wasn’t blind – he knew fear when he saw it.

Dark eyes turned to him, eyes that creased with old pain and went even darker with memory.

“He’s not a new guy, is he?”

Holleran’s laugh was harsh and echoing. “No, Sergeant Lane, he’s not. I remember hearing stories about him when I was in the Academy.”

Breath hissed against Ed’s teeth. “He’s been around _that_ long?” Why had he never _heard_ of this Castor Troy before?

Bitterness shone. “Once Archer took him down, we buried the memories, Ed. We buried the stories and the shame and moved on; he was sentenced to life imprisonment.”

Ed blinked at that. “Wait…if he’s in _prison_ …”

“We don’t know how he escaped, Ed, but he did. And now Castor Troy is back in Toronto, picking up right where he left off.”

Shoulders tensed. “Tell me,” Lane urged quietly. “Tell me about him.”

Holleran laid out the file, much smaller than it should’ve been. “Most of the original material is sealed, Ed.”

“Sealed?”

A nod. “Yes, for the protection of several witnesses that testified at the trial; their real names are in the file and Archer wasn’t about to risk those names leaking to Troy’s hired thugs.”

Translation: dirty cops. Ed growled low, indignation smoldering. “What do we know?”

Holleran grimaced. “Less than we’d like; I’ve already got a lawyer on unsealing the original file, but Detective Archer retired not long after the trial and moved to the States. The prosecutor died about seven years ago; heart attack.”

“What about the judge?” Ed inquired.

“Name is in the file,” Holleran replied. “Ed, I won’t lie to you; Castor Troy used to strike fear into every cop that heard his name. You prayed you didn’t catch his eye or cross his path because he wouldn’t just take out _you_ ; he’d take out your whole _family_.”

A sharp, angry breath.

Lost in memory, Holleran didn’t even hear the sound. “Every year, he’d ‘congratulate’ the top-ranked cadets in the Academy; I remember competing for the eleventh spot.”

“Eleventh?” Ed broke in, startled.

A bitter twist of the mouth. “No one wanted to be the top ten, Ed. They usually didn’t survive their graduation.”

Ed’s jaw dropped open, working soundlessly.

“I remember, two years before I graduated, they didn’t announce the top ten rankings, hoping that would be enough to stop him.”

“What happened?” Ed rasped, knowing by the look in his commander’s eyes that it hadn’t been anything good.

Old grief shone. “Troy found out anyway, then he snatched the top _twenty_ cadets. Some of them survived, some of them didn’t. None of them stayed in the force.”

“But this Archer guy still went after him?”

Holleran nodded grimly. “Castor Troy tried to take Detective Archer out personally. Shot him in the chest, but it didn’t kill _him_.”

Ed froze, his question clear.

“The bullet went through him and hit his three-year-old son, Ed. The boy died instantly.”

The rest was easy to piece together; with a clear personal vendetta, Archer should’ve been off the case, but given how Castor Troy had _terrorized_ Toronto law enforcement, no one had been willing to take Archer’s place as the crime boss’s number one target. “Then Archer did it,” Ed concluded quietly. “He caught Troy, took him down.”

“Not quite,” Holleran corrected reluctantly. “A rookie cop, just out of the Academy, spotted Troy while he was off-duty. Made the arrest on the spot, then spent the next few months in protective custody so he’d survive until the trial.”

“Did he?” Ed asked.

Salt and pepper hair bobbed in affirmation. “He testified; he’s one of the witnesses whose identity was concealed, even from the judge and jury. Two years after the trial, his assigned patrol car blew up; no one was ever caught, but Troy sent the precinct a bouquet of black roses.”

And thus, Ed concluded, had gone one of their few links to the trial – and Castor Troy. Meeting his commander’s eyes, he asked, “So we’re gonna take him down?”

“Not yet,” Holleran replied. “We need more information; Intelligence Services is handling that part. Your contact there is Brenda Kastor. I’ll keep working on the trial information.”

“What about Detective Archer?”

Holleran’s expression tightened. “Archer isn’t an option, Ed.”

Ed wanted to ask why, but the forbidding glint in his commander’s eyes silenced the question burning in his chest.

* * * * *

Ed didn’t wait for his friend to slur a greeting at him. “Greg, ever heard of Castor Troy?”

He heard Greg’s sharp breath and, in the background, the sound of a door closing. “Eddie?” No slur, as if the mere mention of the man had sobered Ed’s drunken former boss.

Briefly, Ed explained the chain of events, finishing with, “So I was wondering what you might’ve heard back then, Greg. You’ve been on the force longer than me.”

Minutes ticked by, but Ed could hear heavy breathing as well as the almost audible sound of the other man _thinking_. Finally, Greg murmured, “My graduating class was the last one before Troy was arrested.”

Ed sat straight up. “You knew the guy who arrested him?”

A pause, then Greg drawled, “Yeah, Eddie, I did.” The older man sighed; Ed could almost _see_ the reflexive rake of one hand through thinning hair and over the bald patch. “For whatever reason, Ed, Troy skipped my class. The top ten cadets spent their first weeks on the job walking on eggshells, but nothing ever happened to them. Then he got arrested and well, you know what happened.”

“Guilty verdict,” Ed murmured.

“His lawyer pulled every stunt in the book, Ed, but yeah. He got convicted and most of his organization fell apart. There were a few hardliners; you know how it goes.”

He did. “Anything else you know about him, Greg?”

For a moment, Ed dared to hope. Dared to hope that Castor Troy was enough to catch his friend’s interest, get him back in the game. Then he heard the unmistakable sounds of a bottle being opened and that horrible first swig.

“I know I’m not _drunk_ enough for this, Eddie.” Another swig, then Greg’s voice turned harsh. “Stay away from him, Ed. You and the guys; he doesn’t tolerate threats and from what _I_ heard back then, he leaves his target for _last_.”

A chill ran down Ed’s back, one that had nothing to do with Greg’s drinking. If he was hearing Greg right, if he’d heard Holleran right, then any cop unfortunate enough to attract Castor Troy’s attention had to watch as their entire _family_ was killed. Leaving them alive just long enough to regret what they’d done…


	2. The Italian Mob Boss

Anthony Marconi grumbled to himself as he approached the apartment complex his boss lived in. Well over a _year_ after being hired and this was the first time he was even _meeting_ the man. Dark eyes lurked under faint eyebrows, separated from each other by a sharply angled nose that was as thin as it was long; black hair was close cut and styled to flip up above his forehead, setting off the Italian’s clean shaven jaw. A scar ran from the outside corner of his right eye, curving in a ‘C’ shape down his cheek, and the experienced criminal walked with a slight hunch, huddling into his dark leather jacket despite the pleasant weather. One hand ghosted near his weapon, only to firmly pull away. No one knew he was here, no one was expecting him…except his boss.

He entered the complex, breezing past the elevators – too easy to get pinned down in those things, so he always took the stairs. The man jogged upwards, digging a ragged note out of his left jacket pocket. Apartment 221; internally he snickered, wondering if his boss had read just a bit too much _Sherlock Holmes_. On the second floor, he turned, wandering down the hallway and skimming the numbers. When he reached the apartment, he eyed the plain tan mat outside the door; no decoration, no adornment, not even the standard ‘Welcome’. Then Anthony shrugged and knocked.

A minute later, he heard the sound of a chain being released on the opposite side of the door and it opened. Brown eyes raked him, sheltered behind wire frames. “Anthony Marconi.” Not the question he’d expected.

“You’re Carl Elias?” Anthony blurted, taken aback. For, aside from those shrewd brown eyes, Elias hardly looked the part of a dangerous mob boss. He looked more like a gentle schoolteacher, approachable and affectionate. Partially bald and wearing a light blue button down shirt over a casual pair of blue jeans, he was unremarkable. Placid and defenseless.

Those brown eyes darkened, then Elias turned away, heading back into his apartment with an unspoken expectation that Anthony would follow. Anthony sneered to himself; he could _deal_ with the man and take over even more _easily_ than he’d thought! Elias didn’t even have any _guards_. The mobster stepped inside the apartment, closing the door behind him.

“Nice place,” he remarked, glancing around at the plain, but comfortable surroundings.

“It will do for now. Have you had breakfast yet, Anthony?”

Caught off guard, Anthony trailed after his boss towards the tiny kitchen. “What’d you have in mind, Boss?”

“Scrambled eggs and sausage.”

There were far more sausages than eggs, but Anthony wasn’t about to pass up a free meal; with a shrug, he sat at the open place, Elias taking the other side. For several minutes, the men occupied themselves with the meal, though Anthony also kept a portion of his attention on his boss. In his experience, ‘free’ often came with enough strings attached to choke a horse. Elias didn’t seem to notice the scrutiny, casually browsing through the morning paper without a flicker of concern for the armed, wary man at his table.

Despite the lack of obvious attention, as soon as Anthony finished his portion, Elias looked up, nodding approval at the empty plate. “Take those to the sink, would you, Anthony?”

“Sure thing, Boss,” Anthony agreed, concealing sardonic amusement with the ease of long practice. After all, the plates were _hardly_ going to be _used_ again. Even so, the mobster carefully stacked them in the sink, noting the partially filled dishwasher with another flicker of internal glee.

Once he was done, he turned back, vaguely disappointed that Elias had already left the kitchen. Pity; the living room rug was really quite nice. He strode out of the kitchen, reaching for his gun as he scanned for his boss.

The chop to his wrist drew a yelp and sent his half-drawn gun flying. Without missing a beat, Elias slammed him into the wall, growling as he lifted Anthony up off the floor with one hand. Anthony coughed, struggling to breathe; the hand was around his throat and his feet were only just brushing the ground.

The world darkened, then came back with a gasp as Anthony found himself on the ground, fingers automatically reaching for his throat and lungs greedily sucking in oxygen. He glanced sideways; a fist smashed into him, lifting him off the ground and sending him tumbling to the floor in a sprawling roll. Before he could recover, Elias was on top of him, a ruthless gleam in those brown eyes behind wire rims. The mob boss’s forearm pressed against his throat, cutting off his air once more.

“Let us get one thing straight between us at once, Anthony,” Elias remarked, as polite, level, and unruffled as if the pair were simply talking over the breakfast they’d just had. “I am neither stupid nor defenseless. I will pardon your actions this _once_ , but if you attack me again, I shall introduce you to an ancient tradition.”

The forearm pulled back; Anthony rasped and coughed for several seconds before he could ask, “Ancient tradition?”

Brown turned indulgent. “Yes, Anthony. The ancient practice of being drawn and quartered. Do you know what that is?”

Terrified, Anthony shook his head.

The gentle, patient smile was even _more_ terrifying. “Well, Anthony, there are actually _several_ ways to draw and quarter a person, but I rather favor tying a malefactor’s limbs to four horses and spurring them in different directions. Slowly.”

Part of Anthony wanted to say that _no one_ would be so cruel, but the gleam in Elias’s eyes silenced him. Glee shone and avarice. Trembling, he held still, submitting to his boss’s hold.

“Very good, Anthony; I like a man who learns quickly.” With that, Elias rose back to his feet, offering his subordinate a hand up as if he hadn’t just thrashed the man. “Now then, we have much to do, Anthony, and not much time to do it in. Come along.”

Rubbing his throat, Anthony retrieved his gun, careful not to point it at his boss. Then he followed the mob boss out of the small, immaculate apartment.

* * * * *

Carl Elias smiled to himself as his cowed second in command hung back, unwilling to challenge his boss again as the pair strode into the vacant building. The building itself was not for sale; he’d purchased it a day ago for his…business. The location was _exquisite_ and the slightly rundown nature of the old building _perfect_ for his needs.

“Come along, Anthony, no need to cower behind me.”

“Yes, sir,” Anthony replied, rubbing absently at his throat, but obediently speeding up.

Hmmm…he would have to do something about that… Slowing a touch, Elias flicked a concerned look at his second. “Still hurting?”

The hand was snatched away. “No, Boss.”

Elias tisked disapproval. “Don’t lie to me, Anthony; you’ve been rubbing at your neck since we left my apartment.” Brown eyes scanned the room they were moving through. “I believe there’s a first aid kit in here; I left strict instructions.”

Happily, the first aid kit was _precisely_ where he expected it to be, though Anthony was too wary to allow his boss access to his throat. Well, it would come. Elias allowed not a shred of displeasure to show, purposely softening his expression when Anthony flicked a fearful look in his direction.

First aid attended to, Elias located the _other_ thing he’d arranged. A large detailed map of Toronto that spread out over an old round table. Several locations were marked on the map; Anthony joined him, a touch of awe as he took in the map. “Where did you get that, Boss?”

“Connections, Anthony. Connections that are most useful when it comes to our line of work.” Elias frowned thoughtfully. “Now then, you were saying about our dealers?”

Anthony cleared his throat. “Yes, Boss, some of our dealers have reported increased patrols in their assigned neighborhoods. I’ve got a group that’s going to handle our troublemakers and that should…”

“Recall them, Anthony.”

Anthony blinked. “Boss?”

A severe expression turned towards him. “Recall them and instruct our dealers not to antagonize the locals.”

“But…” Anthony froze, terror glistening.

Elias clicked his tongue and shook his head. “I will not punish you for speaking out of turn, Anthony,” he chided. “Only for attacking me.”

“Yes, sir.” Despite the words, the younger man trembled.

Internally, Elias sighed. He hadn’t been _that_ bad – being drawn and quartered was a _tame_ threat, at least from _him_. “Anthony.” The mob boss waited for Anthony to look at him. “Our neighbors are one of our most valuable protections against the _authorities_.” Despite himself, his lip curled in disgust. “If we _squander_ that goodwill, we deserve precisely what we get.” Turning back to the map, he nodded to himself. “Now then, I need one man from each neighborhood to cease his usual activities; have them trade off so that each neighborhood is unfamiliar with our men.”

“What are they going to do, Boss?”

Brown eyes warmed. “They are going to endear us to the neighbors. Any elderly in need of having their grass cut or their trash taken out, they will do it. If a young mother is overwhelmed with her offspring, they will step in and help around the house. Instruct our dealers that the neighbors come first. If an old lady needs to cross the road, they escort her and even put her groceries in the trunk. If a young child’s ball rolls into the street, they retrieve the ball and return it, all the while keeping the youngster well away from peril.”

“Won’t…” Anthony choked off.

Elias turned, one eyebrow cocking. “Won’t?” He frowned when Anthony averted his gaze. “ _Anthony…_ ”

The dark-haired man trembled. “Won’t that cut into our profits?”

“It will,” Elias conceded. “But the goodwill of the neighborhood is priceless, Anthony.” He paused, then his tone turned intense. “Anthony. Do you know why _cops_ are highly regarded?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued, “It is because they are always seen _helping_. They are seen as selfless _protectors_ of the innocent because _that_ is the image they’ve cultivated. Why should we not appropriate some of that for ourselves? Assist the neighborhood, present an image of impeccable professionalism and _they_ will be our character witnesses. _They_ will send the _police_ on their way, _willingly_.” An implacable glimmer appeared. “There is one other thing, Anthony, that we must be sure to do.”

“What’s that, Boss?” The fear still shone, but a touch of interest shone, too.

Elias’s voice turned harsh, angry. “ _We_ must be the protectors, Anthony. Any robberies, any petty vandalism, we stop it. We _prevent_ it and we punish the perpetrators. Even if they are one of ours. _Especially_ if they are one of ours; I will allow a grace period, but after _that_ …” Brown narrowed. “I will consider such acts as having broken faith with us, with _me_.” The mob boss straightened from the map and shifted to face his second. “It will take time to rebuild the goodwill we have carelessly tossed aside, but if we _succeed_ …”

Understanding broke through and the raven nodded, finishing his boss’s thought. “We earn their loyalty and get them to look to _us_ instead of the _cops_.”

“Precisely.” Elias examined his map once more. “Let us begin there, Anthony. Once we have won the goodwill of our neighbors, we can expand our enterprise into other areas of our fine city.”

Anthony snickered.

Brown flicked to him, a warning note ringing. “You do not think our city is a fine one, Anthony?”

The gangster backed away, fear reappearing. “Sorry, Boss; it’s a great city, Boss.”

Internally, Elias sighed. While a cowed, fearful second-in-command wouldn’t _attack_ him, a definite plus, apparently, he’d frightened the man a bit _too_ much. Bother. Now he had to _gain_ Anthony’s trust – while still keeping him under control. The mob boss considered, then a gleam appeared.

Perfect…

“Tell me, Anthony. How experienced are you in hand-to-hand fighting?” Elias beamed at the startled, wary, suspicious look, brown eyes twinkling behind the wire frames. “I could _use_ a new sparring partner…”

* * * * *

As if one crime lord stirring up trouble wasn’t enough, the rumblings about Castor Troy were soon joined by rumors about one Carl Elias, Italian mob boss. Ed rubbed his bald palate, wishing, yet again, for Greg; his former boss would’ve been able to help him brainstorm and figure out what he was _missing_. Wordy tried, but he was wired a bit differently than Greg; Ed was _used_ to brainstorming with _Greg_ and brainstorming with Wordy just…it wasn’t the same. The give and take felt wrong; it felt like he was hurting one best friend and betraying another.

It didn’t help that both criminals had managed – in only a few _weeks_ – to deeply entrench themselves in Toronto’s underworld. The SRU was being run ragged executing warrants, but it wasn’t making so much as a _dent_ in the city’s skyrocketing crime rate. Troy – living up to his reputation in _spades_ – was worse by far than Elias; his people didn’t _care_ about collateral damage, often using it as a weapon against the cops trying to catch them. Elias’s people weren’t saints, but they also tended to rely more on speed, stealth, and the goodwill they’d built up in their neighborhoods to escape. It was unfortunate that they usually _did_ disappear, but at least they weren’t killing their way free.

The two gangs had yet to cross paths, but Ed had little doubt that it would happen; both crime lords seemed to have their eye on having Toronto all to themselves. That couldn’t happen unless they dealt with the _competition_ , so to speak.

Even worse, Greg wasn’t getting any better and most of Team One had given up on calling him. The drunken slurring had been replaced with a plethora of derisive adjectives and creative snide remarks. Ed was the only holdout and he was getting very sick of Greg’s attitude. Even so, he _refused_ to give up; he’d promised himself, the kids, and _Greg_ that he wouldn’t. Sighing inwardly, the Sergeant pushed aside his thoughts about his former boss to focus on the shift. Given how dangerous Toronto’s streets were becoming, he needed all his attention on his job.

* * * * *

“How fare our _friends_?” Elias sneered.

Anthony smirked. “Worked just like you said it would, Boss. One call in and the _cops_ were swarming all over. They got Gillsby, I saw ‘em.”

“Excellent,” Elias purred. “Take note, Anthony; if a tool is suited to the task at hand, ignore any thoughts of _dishonor_. _Dishonor_ is _losing_ when you could have won.”

“Yes, Boss,” Anthony agreed. He watched the mob boss pace away, pleased all over again. When he’d first met Carl Elias, he’d been _convinced_ he could take over effortlessly; then Elias had thrashed him without half-trying and scared him within a inch of his life.

And _then_ had come the _sparring_ …

* * * * *

_“Come now, Anthony,” Elias chided. “No one ever won a fight with_ defensive _fighting.”_

_“Yes, Boss,” Anthony acknowledged; he knew he wasn’t trying, but he could_ still _feel Elias’s hand on his neck, dangling him off the ground and cutting off his air. He had_ no _interest in relieving that moment in real life._

_Elias seemed to know it, too; only a week earlier, Anthony would’ve mistaken that particular twist to the other man’s mouth and darkening of his eyes as_ anger _, but now he knew it was sorrow. Abruptly, Elias lowered his hands, letting his arms hang at his sides. “All right, Anthony, come at me. I won’t fight back this time.”_

_For a long moment, Anthony held still, waiting for the trap, but the other man merely waited, one eyebrow rising in a mocking fashion. Then the mobster lunged, swinging a haymaker at Elias’s jaw; his target disappeared, twisting to the side and fairly_ dancing _out of range. Anthony whirled, bewilderment and outrage warring._

_“What happened to not fighting back?” he hissed._

_Elias smiled, a taunting, superior smile. “I never said I wouldn’t_ dodge _, Anthony.”_

_Fury boiled up, overriding his fear. The gangster roared, launching himself with a bellow and swinging wildly. Elias ducked, rolling neatly past him and back to his feet before Anthony could turn. This time, however, Anthony refused to give up, closing with his boss and lashing out. One hand clamped down on Elias’s arm; Elias’s hands moved, grabbing onto his arm for an instant, then the mob boss let go. Anthony launched a haymaker, but missed as, even with his arm in his opponent’s grasp, Elias managed to dodge. Growling, Anthony wound up for another blow, but lost his grip; a split second later, Elias wriggled free, laughing as a swift shoulder tuck and roll took him out of range yet_ again _._

_Half an hour later, Anthony admitted defeat; even without fighting back, Elias was just too fast for him. The mobster slumped to the mat, panting for breath and wondering why Elias even_ needed _a sparring partner._

_A water bottle materialized in front of his nose. Anthony seized the offering, twisting the bottle open and gulping down the cool water within as quickly as possible._

_The bottle was snatched away. “Easy, Anthony, don’t make yourself sick,” Elias chided, crouching down to meet his eyes._

_After a moment, Elias gave the bottle back – Anthony was careful to only sip instead of gulp, keeping one wary eye on his boss. Slowly, the adrenaline faded, along with the parched inside of his mouth. “Why?” Anthony finally rasped._

_Elias chuckled softly, somehow divining the real question. “Even the best of us still needs to practice, Anthony. Unfortunately, my former sparring partner isn’t an option.” Honest regret shone, then the stocky man turned back to Anthony. “You’ve got potential, Anthony. I wouldn’t have even bothered asking if I didn’t think so.”_

_Anthony dropped his gaze, fear ghosting through him. But despite everything, it was less. And he couldn’t deny that a part of him had warmed at the praise from his boss. For now, he knew he was utterly outmatched. Still…that could change…_

_And maybe hell could freeze over._

* * * * *

“Was there something else, Anthony?”

How did he _do_ that? “Nothing important.”

Brown swung around, focusing on him. “Anthony,” Elias chided. “My people, my problem.”

Anthony bobbed his head, knowing better than to argue any further. “Three of the local chiefs don’t like that you took their girls away.”

Brown eyes darkened dangerously. “Is that so?” Fury rang beneath the veneer of politeness. “Extend an invitation, then, Anthony. If they can beat me in a fight, I will return their… _women_ …to them.”

“I’ll tell them,” Anthony promised.

“And Anthony?”

About to leave, the mobster turned back, arching a brow.

Elias smiled thinly. “Make sure we have an audience for this. But no recordings.”

“Yes, _sir_.”

* * * * *

Anthony ignored the sneering from the three fools as he led them to the makeshift arena beneath the unassuming building his boss had purchased the day before they’d first met.

“Is he gonna have _you_ fight us, Scarface?” the lead punk sneered.

Without turning, the mobster countered, “Elias fights his own battles. He’s agreed to take all of you on at once.”

Behind him, he heard the goons start whispering to each other and smiled. They had no idea what they were up against. Truthfully, Scarface suspected that his boss had opted for the three on one fight for two reasons. One, to prove to his men that he was no pushover, no weakling, and to oppose him was the worst idea in _history_. And two, to have some _fun_. For Elias, fighting one-on-one was _boring_ and he almost always won. Even when he lost, Scarface knew it was because he’d held back. Sparring was no contest, not unless Elias _wished_ it to be; Anthony had lost count of how many times he’d ended up on his back, flat on the mat with Elias looming over him and a hand to his throat.

Ignoring the sting against his pride at the memory, Scarface stepped aside with a flourish, gesturing the new arrivals to the arena. “Gentlemen,” he announced, a sneer behind the word. “Welcome to headquarters.”

Elias was waiting, a gleam in his eyes and most of his upper ranks in the rough stands around the ring. He was, as always, dressed in a plain, button down shirt, this one _pink_. A deliberate jab, Anthony knew. One guaranteed to incite his opponents and make them even more _foolish_ than usual. Guaranteed to send them into a froth and give their audience _quite_ the show as Elias thrashed all three of them – without breaking a sweat.

* * * * *

The crime lord smiled thinly as Anthony led his three opponents into the ring. His blood warmed, scenting a _challenge_. Still, Elias waited, patient and calm. Once all four new arrivals were in the center, he gestured to his second, keeping his eyes on his opponents.

Anthony stalked away, getting clear of the immediate fighting area. “As all of you know, the Boss has been changing the way things work around here,” he called, lifting his voice enough that everyone in the stands could hear him. “Some of our _chiefs_ are objecting to these changes.” One side of his mouth curved in a sneer. “They seem to think it’s perfectly all right to _beat_ a woman for wanting an hour a day to herself.”

Jeers and boos rose from the stands, mostly directed at the three troublemakers; all of them scowled at Anthony’s back. Elias’s eyes narrowed; for them to _disrespect_ his _second_ – it would not do. _Patience,_ he chided himself, letting his shoulders relax and his stance shift.

“So for _this_ week only, the Boss is welcoming all comers!” Anthony roared. “Anyone who thinks he’s off his rocker, come at him and he’ll take you on! You win, you get his spot.” Cruelty shone. “You _lose_ , you shut up unless you want him to skin you alive and feed what’s _left_ of you to the fish.”

Savage approval echoed off the walls; Elias smiled, expression serene. He tuned out the rest of Anthony’s speech, focusing on his unnerved opponents. Behind wire frames, his eyes remained unconcerned, though a twinkle flashed when the audience roared even louder in approval at Anthony’s second threat – a prolonged death in an Iron Maiden **(1).** The final threat, of course, was the same threat he’d used on Anthony – being drawn and quartered…slowly.

The troublemakers jostled together, almost more afraid of Elias’s inhuman calm than Anthony’s threats. Their leader pushed to the front, outrage overriding the fear. “You took my girl!”

One eyebrow hiked. “I merely gave her an opportunity to dictate her own life instead of kowtowing to _you_.” An insinuating leer crossed the crime lord’s face. “She was most… _appreciative_.”

The man bellowed and launched forward, his minions following. Pitiful. Elias twisted sideways, dodging under and around the flailing limbs in a smooth roll that took him behind his opponents. Then he struck, grabbing the rearmost man by one arm and wrenching it. The other howled as his shoulder popped and the arm went askew, bent in a direction it had _never_ been intended to go. Elias sneered, landing a kick to the goon’s knee, forcing him down on the same side as the dislocated shoulder. More wails rose as he deliberately pressed the arm to the man’s back, eyes alight with glee and a smile on his face.

The other two men attacked from either side; Elias shoved his captive at one, letting the captive absorb the punishing blows from the right attacker while he leapt sideways into another dodge. The left assailant turned, angling a kick at his grounded target; Elias caught the boot only an inch from his face, smirking as he _twisted_. The boot – and the foot attached to it – rolled, hauling its owner to the ground with an aborted yelp. Elias’s third opponent, swooping in for another attack, tripped over his confederate, leaving both groaning on the ground.

Elias slowed his movement, nonchalantly rising to his feet and brushing his hands off. Reaching down, he grabbed the upper man by his dreadlocks and dragged him up, beaming at the pained cry. Once the man was on his knees, Elias landed a haymaker to the jaw, smile growing; his grip on the other’s hair ensured his victim could not fall. A second blow struck the eye socket and Elias stopped, holding the dazed, semiconscious man up by his hair. Free shoulder lifting in a shrug, Elias landed one more punch to his opponent’s chin and let him fall.

“I give,” his only conscious foe cried, lifting his hands. “I give!”

But _mercy_ was not on the crime lord’s agenda; he flipped the final man over and slammed his boot down on the man’s left shoulder. His victim howled as bone audibly fractured, then he froze as Elias swooped down, slamming his face into the mat from behind, forearm pressing against the fallen man’s spine, right at the base of the neck.

Elias hovered a moment, then drew back, climbing back to his feet. He stepped over his fallen opponents and strolled to Anthony’s side. One hand adjusted his glasses, then he straightened his shirt, ensuring the buttons were perfectly aligned. “Patch them up, Anthony,” he ordered.

“Yes, Boss,” Anthony acknowledged, gesturing to several men; they hurried into the ring to help remove the three _fools_.

The mob boss ignored the activity in favor of pulling off his glasses and polishing a smudge he’d noticed at the base of one rim. He inspected the lens, then placed them back on his face. “Are there any _other_ management concerns I should be aware of?”

Though he’d spoken at a casual, indoor tone, his voice carried to all corners of the stands. Not a single reply was heard in the ghost silent arena.

“Excellent.” Elias let that hang a moment, then hardened his gaze. “I do not tolerate domestic abuse, in _any_ form.” Brown swept the stands, noting those who looked uneasy, then he smiled. “But let us move on from such troubles. You’ve done well in these past few weeks; I understand only the most _recalcitrant_ locals still trouble the _police_ ,” his lip curled, “with our doings. Extend my congratulations to all your people.” His smile grew. “Now that we have established a solid base of operations, we can begin to _expand_. For now, avoid the _upstart’s_ people, but do not hesitate to resist if _they_ should target _us_.”

Murmurs ran around the stands, but no one argued. Not after seeing their mild-mannered boss thrash three of his _best_ street chiefs.

To their collective surprise, however, Elias shook his head. “This will not do,” he scolded. “Your fellows challenged my authority; so long as you do not _imitate_ them, you have nothing to fear from me.” He glanced over, nodding approval as his second joined him. “Please, if any of you have concerns, approach either myself or Anthony. _Our_ business is only successful if _we_ make it so; I have no intentions of shooting the messenger.”

Had the group heard such soft talk _before_ Elias’s display, he likely would have had a mutiny on his hands. But the mob boss had chosen his lesson well; not a single one of his subordinates even _breathed_ the word ‘soft’, for fear of crossing him. Nor would they cross his second-in-command; Scarface was a veteran of the streets and he had seen many gangs come and go. That he stood _beside_ Elias was proof enough that he believed in the man – either that or he was too cowed to go against the crime lord.

Elias stood still a moment, waiting for any comments. When none came, he tilted his chin down and turned away, motioning Anthony close. “Gather up four of the most discrete; I have a _special_ assignment for them.”

“Yes, Boss.”

* * * * *

The mob boss surveyed the four men waiting nervously in his penthouse, not speaking as he waited for his second to join them. When Anthony finally arrived, one eyebrow arched behind wire rims at the tired expression on the lean man’s face.

“Not that I’m complaining, Boss, but did you _really_ have to break bones?” Anthony asked.

Brown narrowed. “I did nothing to _them_ that they hadn’t already done,” Elias hissed. “If not to their girlfriends, then to their helpless offspring.”

Anthony froze, rage and hate twisting his expression; the other men growled, fists clenching and anger glowing. “Those…”

“Stop.”

All five turned to their leader.

“ _I_ have dealt with the matter,” Elias pronounced, tone firm. “If they re-offend, inform me at once and _I_ will deal with them.” He swept the group with his eyes. “Spread the word; _no one_ is to take justice into their own hands. If there is a problem, bring it to _me_ and _I_ will settle it.” He paused, considering. “If it is a simple matter of discipline, _then_ you may deal with it – I will not usurp your positions of leadership.” Glancing up to his second, Elias added, “The only exception to this is Anthony. If something _must_ be dealt with at _once_ , _he_ may act in my stead.” Fixing his gaze on the lean raven, the mob boss murmured, “Do not abuse this privilege, Anthony.”

“I won’t, Boss,” Anthony promised.

“Excellent.” Striding forward, Elias moved to the table in the center of the room. “I have considered our next move, gentlemen.”

“The upstart?”

Brown flicked in the scarred man’s direction. “A good guess, Anthony, but no. We have solidified our position within our current domain, but as yet we lack the manpower to expand further.” The crime lord swept his hand over his map of Toronto. “I propose a three part plan. First, as I’m sure you’ve already guessed, we step up our recruitment.”

The other men nodded, expressions thoughtful as they regarded the map.

Elias rapped his knuckles against the portions of the map delineating the _upstart’s_ territory. “In addition to the recruitment, we need to start training. Weapons training, hand-to-hand combat, escape and evasion. Anthony, I want you in charge of both.”

“Yes, Boss,” Anthony acknowledged.

“We’ll discuss a few other issues later,” Elias murmured, gaze intent on his second. The others stiffened at the implied distrust, but didn’t dare argue. “Gentlemen,” Elias rebuked. “This is not a matter of trust, but of priorities. _Your_ task will be _just_ as important as Anthony’s.” So saying, he indicated the open portions of the map, unmarked by either crime lord’s territory. “The third part of my plan is crucial; the _upstart_ has already _acquired_ a number of allies within the ranks of our fine city’s _police_ department. Much as it pains me, _we_ must do likewise.”

Anthony jerked. “You want _cops_ on _our_ side?” he blurted.

Elias tisked. “Come now, Anthony, surely _you_ were thinking the same.”

“Well, yeah,” the scarred man admitted, shuffling. “It’s just…”

He trailed off, but all the others understood. _They_ had only heard the rumors, but _Anthony_ had _been_ there…

* * * * *

_Scarface frowned to himself, guiding one of his chiefs’ newest recruits to Elias. His boss had taken one look at the man’s photo and barked a demand, one Scarface dared not disobey._

_“So you gonna tell me what the big boss wants from me?” the recruit asked, a sharp look in dark eyes._

_“You’ll find out when you get there,” Anthony retorted. “Pipe down and keep moving.”_

_The black man pulled a face, but didn’t argue further, though his expression spoke volumes. Frankly, Scarface had_ no _idea what his boss wanted with a street-level_ thug _, but he knew better than to disobey. His throat still ached at odd moments._

_When they arrived at his boss’s penthouse in the old, outwardly ramshackle building, Scarface waved the recruit to a halt and called his boss. “We’re here,” he announced._

_“Bring him in.” There was no emotion in Elias’s voice, the calm utterly_ inhuman _; Anthony shuddered inwardly. The mobster opened the penthouse door and pointed; scowling, the recruit walked in first._

_Two steps in, Elias pounced; the recruit was_ slammed _to the ground, then hefted into the nearest wall. Scarface cringed, hearing the rasp as the recruit struggled to breathe. Leaning into the man’s face, Elias hissed, “_ Cop _.”_

_Gasp. “I’m not.” Rasp. “I swear to…_ Ulp _.”_

_Elias’s grip tightened, cutting off the words. “Don’t_ lie _to_ me _, you sniveling little_ coward _.” Sneering, he turned, hurling the_ cop _to the ground; the man lay where he’d fallen, nearly choking on the air flooding his lungs. The mob boss_ moved _, slamming the_ cop _into the floor and hefting him upwards once more; the_ cop _desperately struggled to protect his neck from the enraged crime lord. Contemptuous, Elias flicked aside the feeble attempt, kneeing the_ cop _in the gut and punching him in the eye before pinning him against the wall once more._

_Terror shone in the_ cop’s _eyes; he stared between his two captors, gulping in as much air as possible. Then confusion peeked through, his mouth moving, lips forming a silent word._

_Elias snarled and pulled the_ cop _forward before smashing his head against the wall. Then he turned, shoving the injured man into Anthony’s grip. “Take this_ trash _and dump it on some precinct’s front steps.” Hate blazed. “Don’t kill him, Anthony; I want him to give them a message.”_

_“What message?” the_ cop _rasped; he yelped when Elias yanked his head back by its hair._

_“The_ next _time, I_ won’t _be so_ merciful _,_ cop _. Send someone undercover in_ my _organization again and I’ll send their_ head _back to your superiors and dump what’s_ left _in the harbor.” A knife slipped free of its sheath and Elias ran it across the_ cop’s _jugular, smirking at the way his victim blanched. “Understand?”_

_The_ cop _swallowed, but didn’t respond; Scarface smirked and hauled the_ cop _away once his boss removed the knife. He knew_ just _the precinct…_

* * * * *

Elias shook his head. “It’s true, Anthony, I _loathe_ cops. I _despise_ them, but I refuse to allow this _upstart_ the advantage. If we _permit_ him to retain this advantage, his _allies_ will be able to paint _us_ as the greater threat, forcing us to wage war on two fronts.” Turning to the others, the mob boss laid out his plan. “Start with brand-new recruits. Have them wriggle their way into the _cops’_ good graces. Tell them to _listen_ and start to paint a picture of who might be amenable to our… _donations_.”

Anthony snickered, earning a brief, but not serious, glare.

“Take it slow,” Elias instructed. “Make no moves you aren’t completely sure of. The first will undoubtedly take the longest. Once you’ve hooked him, you will have our in. Use _him_ to recruit others, but maintain patience and _caution_. Even the most _crooked_ cop is _still_ a _cop_ and not to be trusted. Keep them separate from our organization and permit them _no_ information beyond that which they _need_.”

The four men nodded, to their boss and each other. Glee was beginning to appear, the glee of turning _cops_ into informants and ‘allies’. The glee of pulling the _cops_ down to _their_ level.

“Once you’ve turned them, bring me their names and everything you know about them,” Elias ordered. “We’ll start small, but eventually I want our _allies_ investigating the _upstart’s_ allies. After all, once we know who they _are_ , we can _use_ them.” An evil smile crossed the mob boss’s face, one his men shared.

By the time they were done, the _upstart_ and the _cops_ wouldn’t know what hit them.

[1] A medieval torture device.


	3. Gang War

“Word, what do we got?” Ed asked, striding to join his team leader.

“A mess,” Wordy summed up, frustration twisting and one hand running through short brunet strands. “All the neighbors will say is that Troy’s people poked their noses where they didn’t belong.”

The officers turned, Ed’s eyebrows hiking when he spied the men they’d come to arrest; both were dangling by their ankles from a handy streetlight. “The neighbors have any _ideas_ about who did that?”

The big constable snorted. “You’re joking, right? We’re in _Elias’s_ territory; none of these people are gonna talk to _us_.”

Ed swallowed bitterness – had it _really_ been only five weeks since he’d gotten his Sergeant’s stripes? Had it _really_ only been five weeks since the city’s trust in her protectors began to nosedive? “I hear you, Word. Have Jules and Lou give it a go any way – maybe we’ll get _someone_ who’s willing to talk.” Someone who hadn’t bought into Carl Elias’s ingratiation tactics and propaganda about cops.

“Copy,” Wordy agreed, gray eyes solemn. “Makes you wonder which one of them’s worse.”

“Castor Troy,” Ed replied without hesitation. “Before we got this call, Holleran told me his crew cornered two more unis.”

Wordy swore, expression turning bleak. “They alive?”

“Barely.” The Sergeant shook his head. “Word, we gotta get this guy. At least Elias hasn’t killed any cops.”

“He beat that Guns ‘n’ Gangs rookie half to death,” Wordy countered. “Raf _swears_ he didn’t do anything wrong and…”

“And he’d only been under two days,” Ed finished, rubbing at his bald palate. “I know; Roy and Giles debriefed him, Wordy. Roy said he was hiding something, though.”

“Hiding something?” the brunet echoed, confused. “Why would he do that?”

Ed shook his head, just as bewildered. “Roy just told me he clammed up when he heard his last name.”

Wordy frowned, but said nothing for a minute. Then he huffed and turned back to their two subjects, eyeing the dangling, semiconscious men balefully. “Okay, I’ll get Jules and Lou on interviews. Then I’ll check with Spike; he might have a ladder so we can get those guys down.”

“Copy that,” Ed murmured.

* * * * *

“So what’s the argument tonight, Eddie?”

Sarcasm rang and Ed closed his eyes, wishing he _hadn’t_ just heard the sound of a bottle opening in the background, the soft _hiss_ announcing Greg’s latest instrument of self-destruction. The slurring was gone, but all _that_ meant was that his friend was holding his alcohol better.

“No argument, Greg, just wanted to check in on you.”

“A _likely_ story,” Greg sneered, audibly swallowing down the _poison_ that had taken Ed’s _best friend_ away. “You, ah, you like the job so far? Nice, cushy promotion, eh?”

Swear words ached to be let loose, to strike at Greg just as Greg was hitting _him_ , but Ed clamped down. “We miss you, Boss.”

It was even the truth; Ed had lost count of how many time Wordy had started to utter, ‘Sarge’, before cutting himself off, searing loss in gray eyes. He’d lost count of how many times he’d ghosted into the briefing room, only to find…no one. Sam and Jules were fighting like cats and dogs; Spike and Lou hadn’t pulled a _single_ prank since that day. And the _kids_ … The anguish, the _agony_ in their eyes… The questions, wondering what, on _Earth_ , had they done _wrong_? Why hadn’t they been _good_ enough for Greg? Why hadn’t he been willing to _fight_ for them?

“Yeah, well, you’d better get used to this.” Rough and angry, _nothing_ like the Greg he knew.

“Why, Greg, _why_?” Ed blurted, pain radiating, echoing down the line.

He heard Greg pause, heard the bottle land on a nearby surface. For a moment, his friend’s voice shook. “It’s better this way, Ed. Safer.”

“ _Better_?” His free fist curled. “How the _heck_ is this _better_ , Greg? How is _you_ , halfway down a _bottle_ , _better_? Huh?”

“Well,” Greg drawled, the shaking gone. “You _did_ tell me to put _myself_ first for once.” Another generous gulp in the background. “I’m just taking your advice, Eddie.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t,” Greg agreed. “Be careful what you wish for, eh?”

Ed swallowed a growl, wrestling against the rising lava in his soul. “Stop it, Greg. I’m not giving up.”

“Oh, you’ll give up,” his friend countered, the cheerful note in his tone at odds with the words themselves. “Everyone does, sooner or later.”

“Not. Me.” Give up on one of the _best_ friends he’d ever had? Greg was out of his mind.

Greg chuckled, a dark, knowing chuckle. “Well, Eddie, I’d love to chat some more, but I’d better get my stash squirreled away before some nosy _biddy_ comes looking for it. Tootles.”

The phone clicked, leaving Ed staring at it in disbelief. That…that hadn’t even _sounded_ like Greg. Convulsively, the Auror gulped. Was Greg…was Greg under the _Imperius_?

* * * * *

Elias growled, but forced himself to calm down as he paced sideways. Anthony didn’t deserve his temper – or the damage he could do if he so chose. Especially not in a _sparring_ match. Brown narrowed, judging his opponent, then the mob boss _moved_ , closing with Anthony, hooking one foot behind the other man’s ankle, and driving him down into the mat. One forearm pressed against the lean man’s neck, then Elias backed off.

Anthony scowled and pushed himself up. “You’re holding back, Boss.” Accusation rang.

Of course he was. Had for a _very_ long time, ever since he’d found out what he was capable of if he _didn’t_ hold back. The crime lord had learned how to be the _best_ , because when he _hadn’t_ been the best, he’d suffered for it. The scars on his palms gave testament to that day – the day he’d discovered _why_ he had to _be_ the _best_ , why being anything _less_ was _unacceptable_.

His second shifted, but Elias raised a hand, shaking his head and turning away. “No more, Anthony. Not today.” Too close, too _raw_ ; he couldn’t risk it.

“You know, holding back’s gonna get you _killed_ one of these days, Boss.” Acid, flung with razor precision, all the _worse_ because he’d heard those words before.

“No, _Anthony_ ,” he snapped, whipping back around, eyes blazing. “ _Not_ holding back will get _you_ killed!”

The raven froze, gawping at him.

Old pain trawled across the mob boss’s face and he wearily turned away again, heading to the small refrigerator he kept right next to the sparring mat. Numb, he opened the door, yanking out a water bottle; one shoulder knocked the door close while he tore off the cap and drained the contents in three gulps. Why did he keep the tiny bottles around anyway…not nearly enough liquid for a conversation like _this_.

“Boss?” Wary caution, so like those first few days.

Elias hung his head. “My first crew, Anthony; we were doing a small job on the city’s south side. Nothing much, should’ve been an easy in and out.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Anthony nod.

“Tony was my tech guy – he’d handle the security so all the rest of us had to worry about was the actual heist.” Elias paused, crushing the pint-sized water bottle, jaw tightening. “That job – it was so small that Scott told me to just stay with Tony. We were almost done when it happened.” Plastic creaked in protest, the abused bottle objecting to its treatment. “Tony and I got jumped; they smashed his head into his computer, so he was down.” He stopped, flexing his hands, not even noticing when the bottle fell to the ground. “The other one…he got a garrote around my throat.”

His second inhaled, but Elias hardly heard, lost in memory.

Pain and fear and determination. The crime lord turned his hands over, staring down at the straight line across his palms. “I pushed, Anthony; all I could see was Tony, lying there with blood on his face. It was…slow.” Nerves screaming, blood dripping down his hands – brown narrowed. “I yelled for Scott, but he didn’t hear me.”

“What…” Anthony stopped, cleared his throat. “What’d you _do_ to them, Boss?”

A mirthless smile. “I broke every bone in the first guy’s right arm. The second guy, I punched him into a table and he fractured his skull.” A pause, accented by old regret. “The last guy…he knocked me onto that table and I kicked him in the chest, hard as I could. Broke his sternum and all his rib bones; he coded on the way to the hospital.”

Utter silence; Elias flicked a glance at his second, unsurprised by the man’s blank shock.

“After that, Anthony, I _learned_. I learned what I could do, I learned how to do it – and then I learned how to _never_ do it again.” Brown hardened. “When I fight, Anthony, I know what I can do, how far I can go, and if I _kill_ , it’s because that’s _exactly_ what I intend, not because some guy has me on the ropes and I’m fighting for my life.” Fists clenched. “I hate waste, Anthony, and _that_ was a waste. As good as those guys were, I could’ve used them. I could have made them my assets. Instead, I killed one of them and the other two hate my guts.”

Anthony swallowed convulsively. “Yes, Boss.” He hesitated, then asked, “What happened to your crew?”

Ah, that _was_ the question, wasn’t it? Calmer, Elias opened the refrigerator again and retrieved another bottle. He cracked it open and sipped, enjoying the feel of the water cascading down his throat. “They’re still around, Anthony, but we had to part ways. More my fault than theirs, I’m afraid.” He considered a moment longer, than shook the memories away. “Any word from our fishers, Anthony?”

Anthony straightened. “Yes, Boss.”

Surprise shone. “So soon?” He’d expected the first to take _much_ longer…

“Yeah, Boss. Seems our _upstart_ has ticked off a faction within the _cops_.”

“A faction, eh? What _kind_ of faction, Anthony?” Elias turned to see his second smile, a slow, triumphant smile that pulled at the scar on his face.

“The kind that enjoys a _donation_ or three, Boss,” Anthony explained. “They call themselves the Ra-Kacharz.”

Elias chuckled, low and dark. “Sounds _perfect_.”

* * * * *

“No.”

Ed slumped in momentary relief, then pinned Revan with an ‘explain, _now_ ’ glare.

The young Unspeakable-turned-Auror huffed, running a hand through his hair, the movement nearly identical to Giles’ nervous tick. “Parker might be a Squib-born, but Wild Magic doesn’t like mind-control spells. Heck, _mine_ probably burned through whatever was keeping my memory locked up.”

The Sergeant nodded, thoughtful. “So…if someone tried to use the _Imperius_ on a Wild Mage…?”

“Don’t know,” Revan admitted. “It might work at first, especially if you catch the victim off guard, but the magic _itself_ would start fighting. Wouldn’t even be conscious, it’s automatic.”

“Like breathing,” Ed murmured, earning an approving grin from the former Unspeakable. “So…this is all Greg?” Disappointment and shattered hopes coursed through Ed’s chest, knifing heart and lungs alike.

Revan’s gaze dimmed. “That would be correct, Sergeant Lane. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s not your fault, Revan.” The words were automatic, the nod of thanks stiff as Ed fought, once again, to understand _why_.

_Why, Greg, why? Why did you leave us, why would you go back to_ that _?_

* * * * *

“They want to meet the _Boss_?” Anthony growled incredulously.

“Unacceptable,” Elias rapped out, jaw clenched and eyes hard behind his wire frames. “I have no interest in their concept of mutually assured destruction.”

His men turned to him, all of them, even Anthony, confused and surprised.

The mob boss shook his head. “My _name_ is common knowledge,” he reminded his subordinates. “But _no one_ outside this organization knows what I _look_ like.”

Anthony’s expression cleared. “Anonymity,” he murmured.

“Precisely.” Turning to the chiefs, Elias leaned forward, bracing his hands on the meeting table. Ice formed each word, backed by the crime lord’s trademark calm. “Inform our… _Ra-Kacharz_ …that an in person meeting with myself is out of the question until they _earn_ my trust.” Unspoken was the unlikelihood of such an event. Brown flicked sideways. “Anthony, have some of our neighborhood helpers start sounding out their helpees on the topic of police _factions_.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“The rest of you, pump your contacts for the same. I was expecting this stage of our operation to take much longer.” He paused, letting his words hang, then drove forward into his point. “If these _cops_ are already aligned with the _upstart_ …”

The chiefs traded wary glances, unnerved by the plot their boss was spinning. One of them cleared his throat. “You…you think the upstart would… _use_ … the cops against us?”

Elias smirked. “Why not?” he inquired in a rather innocent tone. “That’s what _I’m_ planning to do.”

The uproar was immediate, all of the chiefs as well as Anthony objecting to using the _cops_ against their competition. It was unthinkable, the _height_ of dishonor, and utterly unworthy of any self-respecting mob boss.

* * * * *

“Boss, you do this and _no one_ will trust you,” Anthony blurted, dismay twisting his expression. “Going to the _cops_? We’ll be rats, snitches.”

“And worse, sir,” one of the chiefs offered. “It could backfire on us.”

Scarface nodded emphatically; he’d been part of a gang that had tried what Elias proposed. At first, it had been everything they could want. The _cops_ had done all the enforcing, all the grunt work, harassing and even _arresting_ their competition. Oh, they’d gotten a hefty cut, but the gang had had more than enough dough to go around in those carefree days. Happy with the _donations_ flowing in, none of the pigs had complained – indeed, some of them had proposed _new_ ventures to their cosseted criminal overlords. Business – and _life_ – had been very good.

Then… Scarface ground his teeth to remember it. One of the _pigs_ had gotten greedy and sloppy and shaken down the wrong man. Before the _pig_ could blink, he’d found himself on the wrong side of an Internal Affairs investigation. The _cop_ had promptly _rolled_ , ratting out every last _one_ of his colleagues for a better deal. Caught off guard and completely _dependent_ on their cops, the gang had gone down, too; Anthony had barely escaped the fiasco with his freedom intact.

“Once a cop, always a _cop_ ,” he spat, missing an odd flicker in his boss’s eyes.

* * * * *

“Very true, Anthony,” Elias murmured, almost to himself.

Around him, the protests picked up speed and steam, all of his men intent on keeping any _cops_ – crooked or otherwise – away from their business and _especially_ away from any efforts to eliminate the competition. Past failures, both local and international, were cited vigorously in an effort to dissuade the mob boss from treading the same well-worn paths as his predecessors, most of whom were dead or in jail.

“Enough!” Dead silence fell. Elias’s expression held no trace of pity, no sign that he would yield to his subordinates’ concerns. “I do not propose this _lightly_ , gentlemen. Nor do I intend to use this tactic against _all_ our opponents. Just _one_.”

“But why, sir,” Anthony asked. “We can beat him; we don’t need _cops_ for that.”

For a long moment, Elias did not respond, his gaze going distant with old pain. Without speaking, he turned away from the table, pacing to the window. “ ‘Why’, Anthony?” he asked, staring out at the sunshine, voice trembling and cracking. Then he turned back, expression contorting. “Because our _foe_ does not _play_ by the _rules_ of the old game. _Family_ is off-limits, it _always_ has been. So long as _family_ isn’t involved with the _business_ , they are _sacrosanct_. Untouchable.”

Silent horror filled the air, all of them knowing where their boss was going, even if they didn’t know the details.

“I was a young man when Castor Troy first made his mark on this city; I watched with glee as he set the _cops_ back on their heels. I _laughed_ when he made examples of their graduating cadets.” Elias shook his head in disgust. “Then he _shot_ a detective’s _three-year-old_ son.”

Gasps ran around the room.

The crime lord trembled, but not with fear. Fury. “He hasn’t _stopped_ either,” Elias spat, stalking back to the table. “A week ago, the retired judge who oversaw his trial was found murdered. Along with his wife, his daughter, their son-in-law, and two infant grandchildren.” Rage boiled. “I want this man _stopped_. I may be a _criminal_ , but this is _my_ city and I’ll be _damned_ if I let Castor Troy _destroy_ it. Even if I have to work with _cops_ to do it. Even _we_ have rules, lines we won’t cross. He’s crossed them and I mean to see him _pay_.” Burning hazel shifted around the table, meeting their eyes. “Who will fight beside me?”

Anthony tossed his head high, a smirk curving his jaw. “I will, Boss.” Slowly, the other chiefs murmured assent.

“Good,” Elias rumbled, pushing off the table. “Get the map out, Anthony. We have _work_ to do…”

* * * * *

The war started, as most wars do, with a single shot. A shot fired, ironically enough, by Constable Sam Braddock when Team One executed a high-risk warrant on one of Castor Troy’s top lieutenants, Dietrich Hassler.

As the call dissolved into chaos, Ed spared a moment to be both grateful and _furious_ at Team Two. On the one hand, trying to contain and arrest all of Hassler’s men would’ve been a _nightmare_ with only a six-man team. On the _other_ … The Sergeant had a fleeting wish that they’d had someone to coordinate between the teams and prevent the inevitable jostling and fighting for command between the SRU Sergeants. Someone who might’ve been able to keep Team Two from blowing Team One’s entry and forcing Sam into cover fire for his pinned teammates – _naturally_ , Team Two had promptly disappeared into the sprawling, massive warehouse, leaving Team One in the lurch.

“Lou, on your left!” Wordy yelled, dragging Ed back to their current situation.

“Sam, Jules, talk to me,” Ed ordered, crouching behind a handy wall for cover.

“They’re not interested in going quietly, Ed,” Jules reported. “Looks like they’re passing out more weapons.”

Ed bit back a host of swear words; spray ‘n’ pray guns, he’d bet his annual salary on it. _Wonderful_. “Word, we got the shields?”

“We got ‘em, Boss,” Wordy replied. “Lou.” Ed watched in relief as his team leader passed a shield over to the less-lethal specialist, keeping one for himself.

“All right,” the Sergeant breathed. “Spike, you and I handle the flex cuffs.”

“Copy.” Fierce. Determined.

“Arrow formation,” Wordy put in. “Slow and steady, guys; those rounds will crack body armor.”

“Sam, Jules, cover us!” Ed ordered. “Watch your shots, but see if you can keep their heads down.”

“Got it,” Sam acknowledged grimly.

Slowly, painfully, the four officers inched forward, sheltered on either side by the shields Wordy and Lou kept up. Any gap, any faltering of their slim protection, meant their deaths, but that was just part of the job; all of them knew and accepted the risks. Minutes ticked by as the team foraged through the hail of gunfire, each step another chance on dangerous, enemy-held territory.

“Ed!” Jules called. “Team Two is hitting them from behind.”

“Wait, _what_?” Ed blurted, then the pieces clicked together. Fury _scorched_ through his veins, almost a living thing in his chest as the gunfire hitting his team slowed. Livid, the Sergeant watched as Team Two handled every takedown, every arrest, hardly even _glancing_ at their Team One coworkers. None of the team spoke; they knew just as well as their leader what had happened.

* * * * *

Once the subjects were secured and on their way to jail, Ed closed with his Team Two opposite. “What did you think you were _doing_?” he roared. “We had a _plan_ , Roenick!”

Sergeant Roenick smirked. “And you played your part perfectly, Lane.” So saying, he sauntered away, ignoring his counterpart’s incredulous outrage.

“Not a half-bad plan, Ed.”

Still staring after Roenick, Ed countered, “Except for the part where _we_ were in the line of fire, Word.”

Sheepish, Wordy nodded, moving up next to his friend. “Hey, I’m not saying I like it, but at least it worked.”

“Greg never would’ve done it.”

The team leader stiffened. “Parker’s not here anymore, Ed. You _are_.”

And that, the Sergeant knew, was that. Wordy was still angry at their former boss, too angry for Ed to use him as a sounding board for ideas or brainstorming. Truth be told, Ed was still angry, too, but more and more, something wasn’t right; it didn’t _fit_.

And perhaps it was high time that Sergeant Ed Lane investigated the links and the Wild Magic behind them. He had no idea if they were the answer to Greg’s behavior, but it was a place to start and he was _sick_ and _tired_ of _waiting_ for his friend to just ‘get better’.

* * * * *

“Well,” Elias inquired casually.

Anthony smirked. “Timmons got in touch; Frost was arrested yesterday.”

“Excellent,” Elias purred. “And Niebaum?”

“Already taken care of,” his second promised. “He won’t be able to get any more of Troy’s gang off.”

“Very good work, Anthony,” the mob boss praised, smiling at his subordinate’s automatic preen. Moving to his planning table, Elias waved the other man closer. “Our chiefs can worry about our _pet_ ,” his lip curled, “Ra-Kacharz.” Tapping his map, the crime lord indicated the locations of their organization’s buildings, as well as their headquarters. “I’ve arranged for five new buildings, Anthony. We’ll need them soon.”

“Boss?” Confusion and uncertainty rang, reinforced by the raven’s perplexed expression.

Furrows carved lines in Elias’s face. “Troy won’t take our latest strategy lying down, Anthony. Back in the day, he _terrorized_ the cops, he didn’t _use_ them. I doubt he’s changed much.”

“He had guys on the inside,” the other pointed out, earning a conciliatory head tilt.

“Yes, but think about it, Anthony,” Elias urged. “The men we _just_ had arrested, what positions did they hold?”

The younger man frowned, gaze going distant. “Niebaum was IA,” he murmured. “Frost was one of the Academy higher ups…”

“Precisely,” Elias concurred. “Neither of them could have affected _us_ and _our_ business, not directly.” Brown eyes caught fire as he stared at his map. “I _suspect_ Troy was planning on resuming his annual attacks on the Academy and its graduates. What better way to re-establish his stranglehold on the city than to insure that _every_ new cop on the street lives in _fear_ of him?” One hand spread, indicating Troy’s territory. “It would not be a _direct_ attack against us, Anthony, but in time…”

Anthony nodded understanding. Living in fear of Troy, the cops would naturally turn their attention to _other_ mob bosses, attempting to salvage their reputation in the city. And with cronies in such high positions among the _pigs_ , Troy would have little trouble influencing events more _directly_ if he so chose – a threat that would _always_ be there, waiting and lurking. “Us using the cops, that’s gonna make him mad?”

“To say the least, Anthony. We need to be ready for him. Escape plans, escape _tunnels_. Fallback positions.”

“War.”

“Yes,” Elias murmured. “I leave this in your capable hands, Anthony. I need to prepare the endgame.”

“You got it, Boss.”

* * * * *

Ed waited impatiently for Greg to answer his phone, ignoring the tiny mocking voice in the back of his mind that insisted he was just wasting his time. He wasn’t giving up. Not ever, but _definitely_ not when he had a _plan_. Well…kind of.

“Come on, Greg, pick up,” he hissed under his breath, glaring at the notebook in front of him.

The phone clicked on, but it took another minute before the other man fumbled the device up. “H’ll’?”

Mentally, Ed groaned; Greg was already three sheets to the wind. “Hey, Greg.”

“H’y, Edd’e,” Greg slurred and Ed sat up straight, lightning flashing through his spine.

“Greg, how long have you been up?” he demanded; he’d _heard_ Greg slur like this before – it had been at the tail end of a ten day shift where they’d spent more time on the move than usual, hardly getting a moment to _eat_ , let alone _rest_.

His friend snorted. “Oh, y’u kn’w m’,” he managed. “L’ts t’ dr’nk, n’t ‘nough t’me.”

Yeah. And he had a pet Velociraptor in his basement. “Greg,” Ed chided, rubbing his head. “Don’t be an idiot. If you need sleep, I can call tomorrow.” He didn’t _want_ to, but if Greg had been up long enough to start _slurring_ – without alcohol – then he darn well needed a _bed_ , not eager theories from his former team leader.

For a moment, Greg didn’t respond. Then he sighed heavily. “No, Eddie,” he said, speaking slowly in an effort to deter the slur. “I can talk now.”

Ed didn’t press the issue – the _last_ thing he needed was the little-known, but infamous Parker stubborn streak. And Greg wondered where his _kids_ got it… Leaning forward, the sniper skimmed his page of notes and opted to stick to the high points. “All right, Greg, I had a chat with Revan about this whole…Wild Magic thing.”

“Oh?” Slow, uncertainty mixed with a slight optimism. “What did he have to say?”

“I didn’t give him any details,” Ed promised, catching his friend’s unspoken worry. “I just asked him for anything the Unspeakables had been able to figure out about Wild Magic in _general_.”

“He have anything for you?” Interest rang, though the exhaustion was peeking through as well.

“Most of it, we already know,” Lane admitted. “But there was something he said that caught my attention.” He paused, letting the other absorb his words, then said, “Greg, he told me that sometimes, when Wild Magic acts on its own, it manipulates the _wielder_ just as much as it manipulates others.”

“That’s not exactly comforting, Eddie,” Greg drawled.

Ed hadn’t much liked the sound of that, either. Still, he shook his head, wishing he and his friend were face-to-face. “Greg, listen to me; I think that’s what’s happening _here_. You _know_ you have to take care of yourself if you’re going to help _us_ , but as soon as Sam told you Wordy was down, you were off like a shot; you didn’t even _think_ about whether you had enough magic left or if trying to save Wordy was gonna be one step too far _emotionally_. And…” He hesitated, then blurted, “And you were gonna take the suspension, but then you _didn’t_. Come on, Greg; if you were just gonna bury yourself in a bottle, why didn’t you take the suspension?”

Silence. But it was a considering silence, not a drunken one. Then, softly, as though Greg was afraid of being overheard, he whispered, “You think the magic is pushing me into putting all of _you_ first? Making _your_ welfare more important than my own? Trying…trying to keep all of us together, no matter what?”

“Yeah, Greg, I think it is. I think it was hiding how _you_ were doing from us, too. Keeping us from realizing _you_ needed help.”

“But _why_?” Greg protested.

Before Ed could respond, he heard noise in the background. Yelling, shouting, the sound of a door slamming. “Greg, what’s going on?” he demanded.

“Oh, _w’nd’rf’l_ ,” Greg groused, the slur reappearing as his words sped up. “S’rr’, Edd’e; ‘nsp’ct’on.”

The dial tone sounded, cutting off anything Ed might’ve said. The Sergeant scowled at his phone, unhappy with the fresh reminder of his friend’s downward spiral. Ignoring the insistent chill up his back, the officer huffed and headed for bed.

* * * * *

Scarface was talking to one of his ‘cop’ chiefs when they heard noise from outside the room. Shouts, splintering wood, pounding footsteps. Before the men could react, the door caved in, bullets heralding the remainder of the night.

The mobster dove for cover, hauling the chief with him. Once in cover, he turned, only to gag and resist the urge to _hurl_ at the utter _wreck_ of the other man’s head. Swallowing hard, he retrieved the dead man’s piece and thrust the body out of hiding, watching grimly as a hail of gunfire impacted the limp form. When the initial attack slowed, he stood up and stepped forward, each shot taking the enemy down. A table was nearby, but Scarface was able to kill all of his ambushers before they realized they’d been had.

Turning away from their bodies, he let out a half hysterical bark of laughter and slapped the building’s intercom, connected directly to the PA system. “Fall back!” he roared. “Execute Raladin!”

Sound from outside the room forced Anthony to duck back; with a growl, he swept down, snatching the dead chief’s phone. The screen was cracked and flickering, but Scarface ignored that as he opened up a contact listed simply as ‘Reese’. His thumb tapped the call button while he skidded down a set of newly installed – and hidden – stairs.

Two rings later, a sleepy, annoyed voice demanded, “What is it?”

“Hellman’s dead,” Scarface announced without preamble. “I’m giving you an address; get your guys here.”

Reese swore. “What about your people?”

A smirk curled the mobster’s jaw. “Once a cop, always a cop, huh?”

“Listen, you _louse_ , I hate that _scum_ – he killed a real good friend of mine,” the cop spat. “I’d sell my soul to the devil if that’s what it takes. So you’d _better_ not die on me until _he’s_ dead, capiche?”

“Nice to know you care,” Scarface jeered, rounding another landing; the door below creaked open, two men peeking inside. The mobster hung up, crouching down to keep from being spotted if the pair looked up. The newcomers’ clothes were spattered with blood, but then, so were his.

“You go first,” one of them hissed.

“No way,” the other snapped. “Did you _see_ what they did to Andrew?”

“Yeah and that’s why _you’re_ going first.”

“I ain’t goin’ down there.”

“You want me to tell the Boss you chickened out – _again_?”

The second man’s eyes bulged. “No, please,” he begged. “He’ll kill my sister!”

“Then _go_!”

Dark eyes narrowed. Not his guys – the boss would _thrash_ anyone who even _thought_ about attacking their _families_. And doing it _himself_ – yeah…anyone who suggested _that_ was in for a _real_ short trip with a sudden stop. Scarface rose, hurling the phone in his hand down at the landing below; it shattered as it hit the ground, drawing attention upwards. Gunshots followed, dropping Troy’s men before they could react.

Threat dealt with, the mobster strolled down the stairs and past the bodies, snatching the broken phone from the ground. It wouldn’t do for the _cops_ to find Reese’s number on a criminal’s cell phone. Pity about the building, though – while not as good as their headquarters, it had been a rather nice spot…

* * * * *

All over Toronto, battle raged as Castor Troy’s gang openly attacked Elias’s buildings and personnel, sparking shootouts and several prolonged, running battles. Law enforcement and EMS converged on the scenes, finding little more than the bodies left behind and signs of a hasty evacuation. At one building, they got lucky enough to cut off Troy’s people, arresting some of the slow ones – the fast ones had gone for their guns with fatal results.

Inside the building, they located several well hidden stairways, leading down into an underground network of tunnels – maintenance, water, and sewer. Aside from the bodies, there was no sign of Elias’s people. One cop, a stout man with dark, extremely curly hair, and brown eyes was the first man inside an office at the top of the building, locating several bodies. When he saw what was left of the only body outside the pileup at the door, he swore – viciously, muttering something under his breath as he turned and left.

* * * * *

What a _mess_. Elias hefted a tear-stricken toddler in one arm and a sobbing preschooler in the other. Both had been separated from their parents in the hasty evacuation from one of the buildings his organization had been using. He’d sent a low-level runner to try and find the missing parents, but until then…he was _literally_ the _only_ person he could spare to watch the children. Troy’s counterattack had been widespread and brutal, challenging his crew to their upmost and leaving far too many dead.

“Shhh…” he whispered, rocking both children. “That’s it, cry it out… I’m here.” Soft, he began to hum, the semblance of a lullaby mixed with a soothing undertone. Ignoring the stares from his men, he carried the youngsters towards a makeshift staging area.

“Boss!”

Turning, he frowned at Anthony, indicating the crying children clinging to him. His second slid to a halt, gawping at him; one eyebrow hiked in amusement at the flabbergasted expression. “Report,” he ordered, keeping his voice low and resuming the humming.

Anthony edged closer, eyeing the little ones before saying, “You, ah, you sure, Boss?”

The mob boss nodded without speaking; the children were starting to calm down as the humming penetrated their awareness, relaxing into his hold.

“Hellman’s dead,” Anthony murmured. “I called his contact, got _them_ rolling to that building. They managed to hit three of our main hideouts – cops are swarming over all of ‘em now.”

“How many casualties?” The words stayed low, the sentence itself rising and falling like the lullaby Elias was humming.

“About a dozen so far, Boss, but not everyone’s checked in yet.” Anthony huffed, rubbing at his hair. “I can ask around, see if anyone is missing two toddlers.”

A confirming tilt of the head; the toddler yawned, snuggling into Elias’s button-down shirt while the other child shook her head, determinedly staying awake despite the soothing hum vibrating through her.

Before he left, Anthony smirked. “Didn’t know you liked kids, Boss.”

Elias twitched a smirk of his own. “I’m full of surprises, Anthony.” Then he tilted his chin. “Go; I’ve got these two.”

* * * * *

Not a _word_ was said as the mob boss paced in the staging area, effortlessly maintaining his grip on the two children while rocking and humming every so often to keep them asleep. The chiefs, wary of inciting Elias’s temper, kept their reports short and their voices low, earning approving nods from the crime lord. There was, after all, no _need_ to alarm the young ones any further.

When his phone buzzed, one chief offered to pull the device off Elias’s belt and read the message; after a second of consideration, he inclined his chin in permission. The man cautiously detached the phone and read the message. “Scarface, Boss,” he murmured. “He found ‘em.”

“Excellent. No return message; just put it back.”

“Yes, Boss.”

* * * * *

“Lizzy!” a worn, bedraggled woman cried, flying up to Elias and pulling the toddler from one arm.

“Mama!”

The other girl woke up, crying at the noise; the woman gasped. “Jane!”

Elias passed the preschooler over without prompting, a smile lighting up his face at the sight of the mother embracing both children, squeezing them tightly and murmuring orders to _never_ scare her like that again. Behind them, their father, one of his street chiefs, hurried to join his family, mouthing thanks in his boss’s direction.

Elias moved around the mother, pausing by his chief long enough to squeeze the man’s shoulder. “Take good care of them, Bennet.”

“Yes, sir; always, sir.” Gratitude shone. “Thank you, sir.”

“Mistuh Eli?” little Jane lisped, drawing the mob boss back.

He crouched down to her level, gaze and expression turning warm. “Yes, Miss Jane?”

“T’ank you for song.”

A chuckle tickled, but he held it back. “You’re quite welcome.” Leaning forward, he added, “You and your sister were a pleasure; it was no trouble at all.”

The blonde girl beamed.

Brown turned serious and Elias tipped Jane’s chin up. “But next time, Miss Jane, you and your sister _must_ stay close to your parents, understand? We don’t want the bad men to hurt you.”

“Yes, Mistuh Eli,” Jane agreed.

“Boss?”

Elias held his position a moment longer, then nodded to Jane and rose, stepping back as he did so. Once Bennet and his wife had taken the exhausted youngsters to their temporary room, the mob boss turned to Anthony. “Talk to me.”

“We’re secure for now. I’ve got a couple runners still rounding up the stragglers, but it could’ve been a whole lot worse, Boss.”

“True.” Elias frowned, propping hands on hips. “The new buildings aren’t quite ready yet.”

“No, sir.”

“All right, we’ll have to make do for another few days.” Behind wire rims, the crime lord’s expression hardened. “Drills, Anthony. We _have_ to do better next time.”

“You think they’ll hit us again?”

“What do _you_ think?”

Anthony’s face twisted. “You got it, Boss. And I’ll make sure we’ve got something in place to keep the littles from getting lost.”

Elias inclined his head. He had no intention of letting Castor Troy’s men have _any_ of _his_ people, even the youngest of them. “Go,” he ordered.

His second hurried away, leaving Elias to contemplate the busy, chaotic scene in his headquarters’ lower levels. The mob boss grimaced, feeling the pull of exhaustion. The sooner all of this was over, the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In another Friday update from Ace Data Recovery, "The engineer has finished imaging your drive, and your case has been passed to Data Processing (DP), which is where another engineer will go through the files and repair any corruption or errors there may be as well as clean out any junk files that might've been produced."
> 
> I confess, I'd entertained hopes that I would have my data back by now, but at least things are moving forward. I _am_ very much hoping that by this Friday, I _will_ have my data back; I can only maintain a 'holding pattern' with some of my files for so long. Plus keeping track of all the independent updates so I can merge them back into my September 3rd files.
> 
> I think I'm going to have to wait for all my data to know if they were able to save the most precious of my files. So the prayers are ongoing, along with the praise that the Lord _has_ enabled them to get as far as they have.
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed today's chapter and I will 'see' you all on Friday.


	4. Warrant Call

Ed grimaced as he pulled his bulletproof vest on, ignoring the brief pang for happier days when he could’ve dressed in sweats and headed for the workout room – with the whole of the city winding tighter by the day, none of the SRU had been in the workout room in weeks. They were too busy patrolling and doing their best to keep a lid on the rising crime wave. High-risk warrants were rolling out so fast that they barely had time to _brief_ them, forcing the SRU into a dangerous, untenable situation. Sooner or later, the lack of time to brief and plan was _going_ to get someone killed, but what choice did they have?

Even worse, since Ed was the most _junior_ Sergeant in the SRU, Team One had gone from the top of the heap to the bottom, constantly on tap for the worst of the high-risk warrants. Never had Ed thought he’d have to play _politics_ with fellow _police officers_ – Roenick’s stunt seemed to have convinced all of the senior Sergeants that Ed was, to put it bluntly, ripe for the picking. He might’ve gone to Holleran, except the commander was always busy and spending much less time at the barn. Even when the commander _was_ in his office, he spent most of his time on the phone and doing paperwork, becoming increasingly drawn, worried, and stressed.

“Morning, Ed.”

The Sergeant turned. “Hey, Word.”

“Warrants again?”

Ed grimaced. “That’s about the size of it.”

The brunet huffed, scrubbing a hand through his short strands. “Can’t we catch a break?” he whined before flinching. “Sorry, Ed.”

“I’m sick of this, too, Wordy. It’s okay.”

Wordy shook his head, refusing the out. “No, I shouldn’t take it out on you. It’s not _your_ fault those two are trying to demolish the entire city and turn us against each other.”

Ed swallowed a rough laugh. “Hey, at least IA is making themselves useful for once.”

The big constable flinched. “I can’t believe it,” Wordy remarked sadly though his hands tightened on the uniform shirt in his hands. “Frost’s been at the Academy _forever_.”

Forever and a day – Commander Grant Frost had been at the helm of Toronto’s Police Academy longer than Ed had been a cop. Frankly, Ed suspected Frost had been around during Castor Troy’s _first_ romp through Toronto, which likely meant he’d been crooked for a very long time. After all, the Academy’s commander was the _perfect_ inside man; trusted, able to discover who the top cadets were without raising a flicker of suspicion.

“Not that IA can pat themselves on the back too much.”

“What?” Ed cast his friend a narrow look.

Wordy snorted. “Didn’t you hear? IA had a rat in _their_ ranks, too.”

Ed gawped.

Wordy nodded confirmation. “Heard a guy in the 8th Precinct found evidence that one of IA’s best investigators was on Troy’s payroll. Took it right to the top, got ‘im arrested.”

The Sergeant whistled. “No wonder IA’s been up in arms. How many have they gotten so far, do you know?”

“I keep hearing different numbers,” Wordy admitted. “One guy says two dozen, someone else says seven; yesterday, Donna was insisting IA had a baker’s dozen, whatever that means.”

“Thirteen,” Ed replied absently, thinking hard. So many dirty cops, turned out of their holes when many of them had gone undetected for _years_. How was it possible? “It’s almost like…”

“Ed?” Wordy prompted when the Sergeant trailed off.

Frowning, the bald sniper paced, automatically avoiding the locker room benches. “It’s almost like IA has _inside_ information,” he said, not looking up as he moved, pretending, if only for a moment, that he was brainstorming with _Greg_ , not Word. “Like they _know_ , even before they look, that something’s gonna be there.”

“A snitch?” Wordy wondered, then he scowled himself. “No, it’s too widespread for that.”

Ed nodded agreement. “You get an IA informant, they’re gonna nail a group in _one_ precinct, maybe even in only _one_ department. They’re not gonna nail someone who knows about them or someone who’s been at the Academy forever.”

“Or someone who’s retired.”

Ed froze, snapping around; frigid blue demanded an answer.

His friend grimaced. “Lou told me; one of the instructors he and Spike had at the Academy. Guy’s been retired five, six years. They arrested him last week for planting a bomb in a patrol car almost twenty years ago.”

Bomb in a… Ed’s eyes widened, the pieces fitting together. The bomb that had killed the rookie constable who’d _arrested_ Castor Troy. A constable too young to have a family, possibly estranged from his parents… A constable who’d been honorable enough, dedicated enough, to ignore the risks inherent in arresting the city’s top crime lord. One of the best…

“Ed?”

After an instant, the Sergeant shook his head. No, it was too crazy, too insane. “Nothing, Wordy.” Huffing, he returned to his locker long enough to retrieve his phone. “I’ll see you out there.”

“Copy.”

* * * * *

“Sergeant Lane?”

Ed glanced up from his pile of paperwork – growing by the day even when he took some of it home – and frowned at the woman standing in the briefing room doorway. The brunette was lean, with a sharp nose, full lips, and pale gray eyes. Her hair was cut short in a female buzzcut, close shorn on the sides, but longer on top.

Rising to his feet, the Sergeant asked, “Can I help you?”

The woman stepped forward, movements brisk. “Brenda Kastor, Intelligence Services, Sergeant Lane.”

Ed’s gaze warmed as he shook the woman’s hand. “You’re working on the Castor Troy case, aren’t you.”

Her responding smile was thin, razor-edged. “I’m working on both of them, Sergeant Lane.”

“Makes sense,” Ed mused with a slight nod. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

Triumph glimmered. “It’s taken me some time, Sergeant, but I have a lead on Carl Elias’s whereabouts. If we can get _him_ …”

“We can focus on Troy,” Ed finished, though inwardly he frowned. _Castor Troy_ was the one targeting _cops_ , not Elias. Aside from a thrashing young Rousseau would never forget, Elias had _ignored_ them, focusing most of his efforts on propaganda and his escalating war with Troy. Why take down a guy who was keeping Troy busy? Setting aside his unease, the Sergeant stuck to business. “My guys are still trickling in; how ‘bout you hold off and brief us all at the same time?”

“Certainly,” Kastor agreed.

* * * * *

“All right, guys,” Ed announced, surveying his team. “We’re going after one of the big fish tonight.” Instantly, his teammates perked up – like him, they were sick of watching their city go crazy. Turning, Ed gestured Kastor forward. “This is Brenda Kastor, Intelligence Services; she’s got our warrant and the details. Brenda?”

“Thank you, Sergeant Lane.” Brenda spread out a blueprint on the table. “This is a building we’ve conclusively tied to Carl Elias; we suspect it may be his headquarters.”

“Any digital blueprints?” Spike asked.

“I’m sorry, no,” Brenda apologized. “The building is quite old and hasn’t been renovated since the early 80s. Not according to any official records at any rate.”

The team grimaced, understanding what she wasn’t saying – the one record they had was about as out of date as it got.

“I’ve read the report from last week’s shootings, so I suspect, at the very least, that they’ve added escape routes down to the city’s underground,” Kastor explained. “There may also be the usual booby traps and we’ve found multiple areas in the known buildings that provided the inhabitants with safe locations to ambush attackers from.”

“We’re gonna need surprise,” Wordy mused.

“Yes, that would be best.” Brenda moved her hand, indicating the top floors. “I suspect Elias lives on site, likely in this penthouse; we don’t know for sure, but I imagine it’s heavily fortified. If he gets in there, it will be a standoff at best.”

“That’s if he doesn’t have his own private escape route,” Lou pointed out sardonically.

“Very true, Constable.”

“So what’s the plan?” Jules inquired. “From what you’re saying, if we go in the front door, Elias will be gone before we can get to him.”

Kastor bobbed her head and pointed to two back entrances. “These are your best bet.” One slim finger traced a route from their proposed entry point to a blank area. “Assuming we are correct, this is where you’ll find the escape route. We don’t think these are guarded, so you can go straight to the top, nab Elias, and extract him with minimal contact. A direct confrontation would be suicide, so we’d prefer a quick in and out.”

“Go in, grab him, and be out before anyone notices,” Wordy concluded, staring hard at the blueprints.

“Word?”

“Won’t be easy, Ed; if they see us, we’re cooked.” The constable glanced up at Kastor. “Can your people scout this out? Maybe find the staircase for us?”

She frowned unhappily. “Ordinarily, I’d say yes, constable, but Elias’s people are about to pull up stakes.”

“They’re moving?” Jules blurted.

Brenda nodded. “Soon,” she confirmed. “Perhaps even by tomorrow.”

Well _that_ put the cat in the pigeons. “We’ve got to go in tonight?” Ed clarified.

“I’m afraid so, Sergeant.”

Ed didn’t bother to hide his grimace – he didn’t _like_ this, not at all. Every instinct was screaming that they needed more information, _better_ information, but if this was their best shot at taking down one of Toronto’s resident crime lords… “Wordy?”

Wordy and Sam traded looks, both of them assessing the situation. Then Sam offered a half-shrug and Wordy turned back to his Sergeant. “We can do it, Boss.”

* * * * *

Ideally, they should’ve left the trucks behind – big, black trucks with lights and push bumpers on the front fairly _screamed_ cop – but the team didn’t have any other readily available options. Instead, the group ghosted through traffic, deliberately splitting up to make it a touch less obvious that they were all together and heading for the same location. No lights, no sirens, and Kira handled dispatcher duties for the evening.

“Kira, Charlie on scene,” Sam reported, keeping his voice low as he and Spike parked in the alley closest to their entry point.

“Copy that, Charlie. Alpha, Bravo?”

“Bravo, two minutes,” Jules replied.

“Alpha, five,” Wordy murmured. “Charlie, see what you can see.”

“Copy,” Sam hissed, waving to Spike.

Together, the two men crept through the narrow street, movements slow and cautious. At the corner, Spike pulled out a pair of night binoculars and scanned the building they’d been briefed on. “I see our entrances,” the bomb tech said. “No guards in sight.”

“No lights on, either,” Sam added. “Some of the windows look blacked out.”

“Bravo on scene,” Ed remarked. “Kira, any luck with blueprints?”

“Negative,” the dispatcher sighed. “Only what Detective Kastor could give us.”

“What about background on Elias?” Wordy inquired.

“Not much beyond a list of his crimes and known associates,” Kira admitted. “There’s some speculation that he’s the illegitimate son of a mafia don and his mistress, but nothing concrete. No description, no picture.”

Spike and Sam traded startled blinks. “We don’t even know what he looks like?” the blond questioned.

“No, we don’t,” their Sergeant confirmed unhappily. “I don’t like it either, guys.”

Silence draped the comm as Alpha arrived and the team shifted into entry formation, Lou and Wordy pulling shields out of their truck. Although Team One was hoping for an easy in and out, they knew better than to expect things to go smoothly. Not with so little prep time and such meager intel.

In the deepening night, the six members of Team One locked gazes, each knowing that _this_ particular high-risk warrant could well be their _last_. Then Ed nodded sharply and gestured his team forward. “Kira, Team One making entry.”

“Team One making entry, copy.”

* * * * *

Ed slowed his breathing as his constables advanced into enemy held territory, each step another one into the unknown. No guards, no cameras; it made his instincts _scream_. Elias was _better_ than this, so what the heck was going on?

“Ed, staircase,” Wordy murmured.

“I see it.”

Slowly, slowly, the team edged upwards, scanning for trouble. All Ed heard was nervous breathing, his teammates remaining calm, but getting warier by the second. Something…something was wrong, something was _off_ ; they could _feel_ it. Too simple, too easy. _Trap, trap, trap,_ Ed’s mind was screeching.

At the top of the staircase, they were confronted with a door. Spike pulled out his detection gear, checking the door for explosive residue, but the scan came back clean. Even so, Lou and Wordy wedged their shields as close to the door as possible, the team sheltering behind them while Jules worked the heavy door open, wincing when it made a low creaking noise.

Nothing. No sound besides their own breathing, no signs that anyone else was even in the building.

Beyond the door, Ed saw an arena of sorts, scattered with heavy objects to hide behind and surrounded by rough, but serviceable stands. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, but the massive room was silent and dark.

“Slow and steady, guys.”

“Copy,” Wordy whispered.

Partway into the arena, right as they reached a somewhat adequate spot of cover, the world exploded. Sound and light slammed through the air, accompanied by a concussive wave that sent Team One diving for the arena’s scant cover. Yells of pain and panic rose from above them, echoing through the building’s ancient floors.

“Team One, move!” Ed yelled; his shout accented by a hail of gunfire – but it wasn’t aimed at _them_.

“Ed! Stairs!” Lou called, pointing forward to where two doors yawned open.

They should’ve fallen back, should’ve called it in and waited for backup, but Ed’s instincts were _howling_. _Demanding_ he move forward – a glance at his team told him they felt it too. “Wordy, Lou! Arrow formation!”

“Copy,” Wordy acknowledged, slamming forward with Lou on his left; the rest of the team hurried to stay close, sheltering behind the shields.

In seconds they reached the far stairs, hurrying upwards and into Toronto’s latest gun battle. “Kira! Kira, backup,” Ed ordered. “Troy’s crew just tried to blow up the building.”

“Copy that,” Kira replied, cool even as worry lurked under her professionalism. “Are you falling back?”

“Negative; we’re going in,” Ed replied. “Just get those units rolling.”

An instant later, they hit the top of the staircase and dove forward into utter bedlam. Bullets flew everywhere, striking friend and foe alike. One man screamed and the Sergeant looked up, staring in horror as the man fell from an upper area to plummet down towards harsh unforgiving tile. The only reaction from Elias’s people was a renewed – and fiercer – hail of gunfire. It felt like they’d run right into an action flick – only, they _didn’t_ have infinite ammo.

“Wordy, cover!”

“Copy!”

Wordy and Lou drove for the best cover on the ground floor, a chest high counter that looked like it had been a check-in desk once upon a time. It was barely adequate, forcing Wordy and Lou to block off the left end with their shields to catch the hail of fire coming from Castor Troy’s men. Ed took the far side, scanning the chaos for anything useful. His hands _itched_ to fire, but at who? It wasn’t like the gangsters were wearing uniforms to mark which side they were on…

“ _Ed!_ ”

A leer and a gun, fingers already moving to pull the trigger.

Panic, fear, all so very futile.

Even as he started to dodge, he knew he was dead.

Gunshot – impossibly loud…was this how it ended? A flash and searing pain and…

The mobster fell, weapon clattering forward out of nerveless hands.

Ed’s head shot up, jaw dropping. Greg! On the stairs, gun drawn and still aimed at the dead man. Hazel came up, met blue for an instant, then turned away. Sam dragged him down, swearing breathlessly.

* * * * *

“Fall back!” Elias roared. “Bennet, trigger the first surprise and get the chain reaction ready to go! Anthony, with me!”

His second was by his side, hurrying to keep up. “Boss?”

One hand lifted, pointed to the group of _cops_ sheltering on the first floor of _his_ headquarters. “Use the back way and get to them. Invoke the right of parley; I want a truce.”

“A truce?”

A sharp nod. “Them with us against Troy. They keep Troy’s men busy, we give them a way out. Tell their leader we’ll get their trucks, too.”

Anthony gawped. “You’re gonna take _cops_ to the _safe house_?”

“The enemy of my enemy may still be my enemy, Anthony, but we need every gun we can get right now. Go!”

“Yes, Boss!”

* * * * *

Shaking, panting – yea _gods_ , what were they _doing_ here? “Team One, status,” he rasped.

“No harm,” Wordy reported.

“Shields are holding,” Lou concurred.

“We’re trapped,” Spike informed them. “We fall back, they’ll have a clear shot; we move forward…”

“They’ll have an even _clearer_ shot,” Sam growled.

“Ed, are you okay?” Jules asked.

No…no, he wasn’t, but he’d gotten them into this, he was _darn_ well gonna get them out…

A grenade lobbed over their heads towards Troy’s men; the team ducked and Ed whipped around, angling his sidearm at the man who’d managed to get behind them. The man lifted an empty hand, a white flag with black skull and crossbones in the other. “Parley?”

Ed blinked, but Spike retorted, “That’s only for pirates.”

“Yeah, whatever, cop,” the mobster growled. “You wanna get outta here alive or not?”

Blue eyes sharpened. “What’s your offer?” Ed demanded, motioning the man forward and into Team One’s scant cover.

The criminal scrambled forward, keeping his head down. When he reached cover, Ed saw that he was lean, dark-haired, and sported a crescent shaped scar on his cheek; the Sergeant’s breath caught. Scarface – Carl Elias’s second in command. Carl Elias…who’d _never_ been seen in-person, who preferred ingratiation and propaganda to overt violence, who’d _thrashed_ a rookie cop, then had him dumped on the front steps of a nearby precinct, virtually _guaranteeing_ that he’d survive. And, funny thing, that rookie cop, one Rafik ‘Raf’ Rousseau, had been _awfully_ closed-mouthed about _what_ Elias _looked_ like.

“Okay, _cops_ , here’s the deal. Right now, we gotta watch you, you gotta watch us, and Troy’s people are burning the place down around our ears.”

“You want a truce,” Wordy concluded, voice hard. “You want _us_ to shoot Troy’s people _for_ you.”

Scarface snorted. “I don’t give a rat’s behind what you shoot at, so long as it ain’t at _my_ people,” he sneered. “Don’t even care if you sit here and don’t shoot at nothin’; _they_ gotta watch you, too.” So saying, he waved in the general direction of the attackers.

“And what do we get out of this?” Ed questioned, ignoring the startled, bewildered looks from his teammates. “Even if we do this, what’s stopping you from turning on us as soon as Troy’s people go down?”

“My boss’s word, that’s what, _cop_.” Scarface’s expression twisted, as though he was unfamiliar with whatever emotion he felt. “My boss, he makes a promise, he keeps it. You do this truce and we bring you along for the ride. Safe passage outta this deathtrap and we’ll throw in your trucks for free. Deal?”

Ed considered, then met Scarface’s gaze squarely. “On one condition.”

“Ed!”

“Boss?”

At the sharp gesture, Team One fell silent. Still holding Scarface’s gaze, Ed continued, “I want to meet your boss. Face-to-face, no intermediaries. You do that and we’ll even give your people cover fire on the way out.”

Scarface frowned, then looked up and past Ed; the Sergeant turned his head to see Elias watching them, though smoke from the grenades and nascent fires was obscuring his features. “Very well, _cop_ ,” Scarface leered, drawing Ed back. “We have an accord.”

Ed tilted his head in understanding, then snapped around. “Spike, Lou, grenades; throw them as far as you can! Jules, Sam, start lighting them up! Cover fire for the far side! Wordy, you and me, buddy, cover fire on this side.”

His team obeyed, though they were plainly unhappy. To Ed’s surprise, Scarface edged in next to him and Wordy, adding his own rounds to the forest of cover fire. Long minutes ticked by as Team One emptied their magazines, straining to see their targets well enough to deliberately miss. In the background, explosions roared, fire ripping through the building, but Scarface stayed steady next to Ed, firing one round after another. The sniper lowered his head, keeping up his own rate of fire, forcing himself to ignore the growing hiss of flame and rising smoke. Just when the group was almost out of ammo, a foghorn echoed.

“Time to go,” Scarface announced. He lofted another grenade over the makeshift barricade, Ed and Wordy adding their last smoke bombs and flash bangs, then turned and indicated a hidden doorway none of them had noticed. “Down the rabbit hole, to Raladin we go.”

“Shouldn’t that be Alice in Wonderland?” Lou snarked.

“Shaddup.”

In seconds, the whole group was through the door; a utilitarian, but sturdy staircase awaited them, taking them downwards into Toronto’s underbelly. Scarface took the lead, but hovered close in an almost protective posture. Ed arched a brow at him, surprised that a _mobster_ cared about a group of cops he’d only allied with out of necessity.

Scarface scowled at him. “Boss’s word is my bond, _cop_ ; I’d have thought _you’d_ understand sommat like that.”

Well aware his team was _displeased_ with him, Ed opted to stay quiet, merely focusing on the tunnel they were trekking through. One hand tested the radio and he winced at the static coming from it. Darn it, Kira was probably panicking by now, but it couldn’t be helped.

“Scarface!”

Team One tensed as a man hurried out of the gloom towards them; he skidded to a halt, going for his gun at the sight of armed cops behind the gang’s second in command. Ed snapped his hand out in a silent order for his team to stand down and Scarface moved, getting between Ed and the newcomer.

“Parley, Bennet,” the lean man snapped. “They agreed to a truce; go on ahead and let everyone know.”

Bennet blinked at them, but stopped his reach for a weapon. “You got it, Boss.”

Scarface’s expression twisted. “And let Elias know the lead _cop_ wants to meet him.”

“I’ll tell him,” Bennet promised. “He’s sending the Merry Men for their trucks.”

“Bunk. Tell them to stay low; the whole place is prolly on fire by now.”

“They know; they won’t let Troy catch ‘em.”

Bennet bobbed his head, then turned and ran back into the gloom, vanishing in moments. Ed let out his breath as Scarface beckoned them after him.

_Greg, this had_ better _be you._

It had to be – because if he was _wrong_ , he’d just betrayed his team to an even worse fate than his former boss _ever_ had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Tuesday mid-morning, I got an email from Ace Data Recovery that they had finished retrieving what files they could from my damaged hard drive. Elated and excited, I sent them a list of the most critical files I'm missing, including the three stories I lost.
> 
> Well, elation turned to utter _devastation_ when I received their reply. None of those files could be found in the 40% of the data they were able to recover from my drive. My original stories are gone, absolutely and completely. The engineer I spoke to said that there might've been a better chance if I'd come to them first, but I didn't even _know_ their company _existed_ on September 3rd. I could only go to Micro Center and pray for a miracle.
> 
> Despite my devastation, by the time you read this note, I will have gone and paid for the data recovery, and picked up what files they were able to recover. It _hurts_ , but they did repair the drive and they did get data from the drive, so I feel honor-bound to pay them for their work.
> 
> Thank you all for your prayers and encouragement over this saga. Jehovah Jirah - The Lord Will Provide. He has said no to my earnest prayer to have my data back, so I must have faith that He will help me reconstruct my stories.
> 
> One thing I know for sure. I will _not_ let Tash win; he may have stolen three of my stories and many of my notes, but he will _not_ win. It may take me a long time to reconstruct my stories and an even longer time to forgive myself for my stupidity, but I won't let this tragedy destroy this series.
> 
> Please read and review. I really, really need the encouragement right now.


	5. I Want My Friend Back

After an hour of walking through the tunnels beneath the city streets, Scarface led them to another well-hidden door, opening it to reveal the same type of utilitarian staircase they’d used to escape the gang’s headquarters. “Home sweet home,” the mobster announced, heading up the stairs, though Ed caught the sardonic tilt to the man’s jaw.

At the first landing, their guide turned to them. “Look, I ain’t stupid,” he began. “You cops ain’t stupid either; you won’t give up your guns.”

“No,” Ed growled before his team could speak.

Scarface flipped him off. “Shaddup. Don’t be pullin’ ‘em, see. The lowest level’s for all the littles, understand?”

Littles?

“You have _kids_ here?” Wordy demanded, outrage blazing.

“ ‘Course we do, _cop_ – you think Troy’s gonna leave our _families_ alone?”

Ed froze. No. No.

_“The bullet went through him and hit his three-year-old son, Ed. The boy died instantly.”_

Oh, dear _gawd_ , no.

_“Stay away from him, Ed. You and the guys; he doesn’t tolerate threats and from what I heard back then, he leaves his target for last.”_

“Why the _heck_ would you bring _kids_ here?” Sam hissed, fury etched in every word.

“To protect them.” Rasping, horrified – was that _his_ voice? “Troy…he…he doesn’t play by any rules.”

A glimmer of respect shone in Scarface’s dark eyes; he nodded soberly, pain ghosting across his face. “Family’s off-limits,” the mobster informed Team One. “We ain’t saints, but we got standards, too. You don’t touch family – they ain’t involved.”

“But Troy goes after _kids_?” Jules’ voice rang with disbelief and dismay.

In response, Scarface pulled out his phone, flicking through the apps before opening one and turning the phone for them to see. Ed’s breath rasped against his teeth at the image on the screen – a terrified little boy with a bullet hole in his heart. The mobster flicked the phone, scrolling to the next image – a infant girl just as dead as the boy. And the next…and the next… Eleven photos in all, each…horrifying. Hatred boiled in Ed’s gut, hate unlike anything he’d ever felt before – even Morgana le Fay and Moffet had more morals than this… _monster_. This devil, this _demon_ in human skin.

“We paid them back for that,” Scarface murmured. “Never saw the Boss that mad, you know?”

“He blamed himself.” Ed knew it, like he knew his own name, like he knew his boss, his best friend, his brother in all but blood.

Scarface sneered. “He blamed _them_ , _cop_. He ain’t no cop, ain’t no bleedin’ heart hero. We got all of Troy’s lieutenants and served ‘em up for fish food.”

“Then Troy came after you tonight,” Lou put in, subdued and still reeling.

“He ain’t as smart as the Boss, _cop_. You keep those guns where they are; the littles don’t need more scarin’.”

Numb, the Sergeant followed Scarface up the next flight of steps, feeling his teammates shift and jostle on the steps behind him. Then Jules was beside him; the negotiator kept her voice low, pitched for his ears alone. “Ed…why send us after Elias?”

Confusion turned to her, too burdened to reply.

Her ponytail whipped. “If Troy goes after _kids_ , he’s ten times worse than Elias. And Elias has been keeping him _busy_. Why send us after the _only_ man in the city standing between Troy and king of the underworld?”

A frown. “Maybe she doesn’t know?” But how could she not? Detective Archer’s _son_ had been murdered. At _three_. And that had been _years_ ago, during Troy’s first reign of terror. Even halfway down a bottle, Greg had been warning him to stay away – or had Greg been _playing_ him?

“Even if she doesn’t know about the kids, she should know about the cops,” Sam put in from the other side. At Ed’s puzzled expression, the sniper snorted. “Come on, don’t tell me you haven’t heard the old timers swapping horror stories.”

He had – and he’d kept _Holleran’s_ tales to _himself_. Troy was dangerous – ruthless and psychotic all at once. So why send his team after the _lesser_ threat? And…and if he was _right_ , _why, why, why?_ Why the lies, why the disappearing act, why leave them _behind_? They were stronger together – Greg knew that.

“Mistah Tony!” a young, childish voice cried.

Ahead of them, Scarface chuckled and crouched down in front of a little girl with blond hair, light blue eyes, and a smile wider than her tiny face. “Hello, Miss Jane. Have you and your sister been good?”

The preschooler nodded solemnly. “We went with our nurse, Miss Layla, and didn’t cry at all, Mistuh Tony. Daddy promised us a pony ride when he gets to our new home.”

“He _did_ , did he?”

Just then, the little girl noticed Team One and promptly hid behind Scarface, trembling with fear. “No,” she wailed, “Don’t go, Mistuh Tony! Don’t let them take you away!”

Ed swallowed hard, nausea rolling. Without thinking, he crouched, just as Scarface had, and did his best to meet the terrified blonde’s eyes. “Hey,” he soothed, “We’re not taking your friend away, promise.”

Blue regarded him with great suspicion.

“Really,” Ed insisted. “Your friend here – he offered to get me and my friends out of trouble if we helped your folks get away from the bad guys.”

“It’s true, Miss Jane,” Scarface agreed – to Ed’s everlasting shock. “Mister Eli invoked parley with them.”

The child favored all of them with a scowl. “The right of parley,” she announced, suddenly sounding like a prim schoolmarm, “is an ancient tradition of the _Pirate’s Code_. It doesn’t _count_ for _cops_.”

Ed winced, feeling like he’d just had a strip of hide taken off.

Scarface chuckled. “Very true, Miss Jane,” he concurred, then he leaned closer and winked. “That’s why Mister Eli is the boss around here – he’s smart enough to make Parley work with _cops_.” In one smooth movement, the mobster scooped the youngster up and straightened. “Come on, Miss Jane; let’s find Miss Layla and your sister.”

“But I want to see Mistuh Eli!” Jane protested.

“Another day, Miss Jane,” Scarface soothed, heading up to the next landing where a door was cracked open just enough for a small child to get through. “Mister Eli needs to take care of our new home and make sure the bad men didn’t follow us here.”

The girl stuck out her lower lip, letting it tremble. “They’re right behind you,” she sulked.

Scarface tisked. “That’s not very nice, Miss Jane,” he scolded. “I’d trust a _cop_ before I’d trust one of the bad men. _Cops_ don’t eat little munchkins who don’t finish their peas.”

“Peas are _gross!_ ” Jane declared, thoroughly distracted.

Ed and Wordy traded glances, both fathers struggling not to snicker, though Ed felt another pang in his gut – the little girl _really_ believed cops were bad. Behind them, their teammates wisely kept quiet, deferring to their more experienced – in the ways of young children – colleagues.

When the group reached the landing, Scarface turned, only to nod thanks as Ed gestured his team to a halt. The mobster disappeared inside the doorway, returning a few minutes later empty-handed, expression sheepish. “Eh, ah…sorry about that…”

The Sergeant understood – ordinarily, Scarface would prefer being boiled in oil to _apologizing_ to a group of _cops_ , but since he and his team were – technically – Elias’s guests, the mobster was _trying_ to be a good host. Even if it meant being nice to _cops_.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ed replied gruffly. “My daughter’s about a year old.” He eyed the man narrowly. “So…Tony…”

Scarface fidgeted, still uncomfortable. “Anthony, actually,” he admitted.

“And Eli is Elias?” Spike hazarded.

Another fidget, then the mobster scowled. “What’s it to _you_?”

“Just curious,” Ed countered before pointedly eyeing the next staircase. As interesting as it was to see how the _criminal_ side of life lived, he wanted to meet Elias. And maybe…just _maybe_ …get his best friend back.

* * * * *

On the safe house’s ground floor, Scarface left them with Bennet and headed off to report to his boss. Team One automatically shifted to guard each other’s backs, unnerved by the stares from Elias’s people. The safe house was a bustle of activity, mobsters flowing in and out, reorganizing rapidly enough to impress an army general. Reports and gossip were just as swift and the officers watched as Bennet alternated between keeping an eye on them and handing out orders to a select group that appeared to be his crew.

Mentally, Ed worked through the command structure he was seeing. Elias at the top of course, then Scarface. If he was right, then there were several chiefs below Scarface, answering to both the top men equally and running their various crews. Tight and efficient, though Ed wasn’t sure how tenable it was long term. Without _loyalty_ , the chiefs would always be jostling for a larger piece of the pie – their crew, likewise.

Except… If he was _right_ … Muggles, Squibs, Squib-borns – Greg had taken a disparate group of police officers and turned them into a _family_. Into one of the _best_ SRU teams in the _city_. After _that_ , how hard could wrangling a group of _criminals_ be? Oh, his friend would undoubtedly demur and insist that Team One was _far_ easier to handle, but still.

Blue eyes flicked around, judging the determination he saw on almost every face. These people had _just_ been driven out of their home, their _headquarters_ , and they were still raring to go. He hadn’t heard even _one_ whisper against Elias, no, all the conversations he’d eavesdropped on had to do with how to get their new headquarters up and running so they could take the fight to Troy. Loyalty – Elias’s people had it in _spades_. How the heck did Greg _do_ that? Still…still be _himself_ while pretending to be an Italian mob boss?

Behind the Sergeant, he could feel his teammates’ eyes on his back, all of them wary and afraid; none of them had seen what _he’d_ seen in that split second. None of them understood why he’d agreed to help a gang of _criminals_ , why he’d only asked to meet their leader before accepting the offered truce. Sure, they’d been in a bad spot, but Ed knew his team; they could’ve gotten out with a little patience and maybe a touch of magical luck. Uncertainty lashed at him – what if he was _wrong_?

But no, he wasn’t – it was _Greg_ , he _knew_ it in his _bones_. And now…now Greg could come _home_. He could have his spot back, everything would be _normal_ again. No more fighting with the other Sergeants and jostling to get his team back to the top. He could go back to team leader, with Wordy as their ever stalwart backup team leader. Whatever reason Greg had for lying, for slipping off to go _undercover_ , they could deal. Put things right.

“All right, _cop_ , Boss is ready for you.”

Ed straightened, turning towards Scarface. His teammates shifted, ready to follow, trusting their leader.

Only for Scarface to shake his head. “Just _you_ , cop. No one else.”

“Ed,” Wordy protested, reaching out and grabbing his Sergeant’s shoulder. “Let’s just go; that’s too much.”

Nothing was too much for Greg; Ed shrugged his best friend’s hand away. “You got it,” he replied, determinedly ignoring his teammates’ incredulous glares. Glancing over his shoulder, the Sergeant remarked, “Be right back, guys.” Horror, dismay, fear, but they’d deal. Once they had the _Boss_ back, it would all be better. It had to be.

Without any hesitation, Ed followed the mobster into the crowd, head high and shoulders back. Just another day on the job. Scarface wound through the assembly, pausing every so often to make sure he hadn’t left the officer behind, an amused, sardonic gleam in dark eyes. Ed ignored that; Scarface had _no idea_. Once a cop, always a cop; Greg was no criminal, he was one of the _best_ cops in the _city_. And once they were back together, once Team One was _whole_ again, they’d show Castor Troy what for.

The mobster headed up a staircase, Ed on his heels; as the pair ascended, the ruckus began to die down. Less noise, less people – good; Greg hadn’t done well with loud situations ever since that long ago airport escort and a certain grenade Sam had jumped on. The Sergeant restrained a smile, imagining the _look_ on his friend’s face. Or did Greg already know he was here? No, he had to know – unless his friend made a habit of shooting bad guys _right_ before they could kill cops…in the middle of a wild, insane shootout.

Ahead of them, a voice rose. “Check the south escape; it was only put in yesterday, so make sure we didn’t strain the setting concrete.”

“Yes, Boss,” another replied.

“Head count?”

“All the families are accounted for, Boss; seven confirmed dead before we evacuated, but we still got people coming in.”

“All right, keep a tab and let me know once you have the final numbers.”

“Yes, sir.”

A brief pause, then, “Timmons, get in touch with your contacts; let’s see what _scurrying_ the Ra-Kacharz can pick up after tonight.”

“Understood, Boss.”

“Good. Dismissed, all of you; I have a _guest_.”

Ed swallowed hard at the clatter from the room ahead, the mobsters dispersing to their various tasks. Soon…soon.

_I want my friend back._

If only to himself, he was honest enough to admit that was the _real_ reason he was so firmly convinced of what he’d seen. If Greg was _here_ , _undercover_ , then he wasn’t halfway down a bottle, drunk as a skunk and _refusing_ to get better. He’d hurt them, yes, but _this_ – this was fixable. Recoverable. At the corner of his eye, he saw Scarface leer at his hesitation. Firming his stance and setting his jaw, Ed Lane walked into the room to meet Carl Elias.

Hazel eyes swung to him, hidden behind wire frames. Elias wore a soft looking button down shirt – washed out blue – and a pair of dark brown slacks. Partially bald, stocky, with an expression far more suited to…

_Greg._ He’d never been more sure of anything in his _life_. Hazel hardened, shifting to pure _topaz_ ; Greg suddenly close enough to _touch_ and…

His back hit the wall, forcing the breath from his lungs. Burning fury, a stranger’s coldness, staring him in the face and snarling outrage. Words…focus on the words…

“…dare call me that _again_ , _cop!_ ”

But…

Another slam; his head rang with the force of impact. “Call me by that _name_ , _again_ , cop, and I’ll make being drawn and quartered look like a _picnic!_ ”

Ed flinched violently, remembering. The goblins had done that to Moffet’s body, demanding _vengeance_ after they’d taken down all of the psychopathic wizard’s dark magic-tech labs. As Goblin-Friend, Greg’s presence had been required – he’d tagged along out of sheer obstinate refusal to let his best friend face that _nightmare_ alone. A nightmare that had spawned weeks of nighttime misery as his imagination went wild.

“Get him out of my _sight_ , Anthony. Take him back to his _pathetic_ team of _SWAT rejects_ and get them the _heck_ out of _my_ safe house!”

* * * * *

No one said anything to him all the way back to the barn. He didn’t speak through the debrief, numbly signing the transcript with his name and badge number. The world was a blur, his movements on autopilot. He called Sophie, not sure what he said, only that she agreed to let him stay late at the barn.

Agony raged through him as he changed into his sweats, leaving his uniform out on the bench. Grief and shock and _why, why, WHY!?!?_ The yell erupted, right along with his fist as he struck the punching bag, sending it swinging wildly. Pain engulfed him, breath coming in pants, movements sharp, just on the edge of control. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t _fair_ – why hadn’t it been _Greg_ , why had it been someone who had all of his _looks_ , but _none_ of his _soul_?

Tears streamed down his face, unnoticed as he battered the punching bag, the howls ripping free. So perfect, it had been so _perfect_ – and _wrong_. How? How had he gotten it so _wrong_ , why had he risked his team? Another roar, another furious haymaker, sending the bag spinning once more.

_Please, Greg; I want my friend back…_

When the tears turned to sobs, he sank down on the mat, vaguely ashamed, but it hurt too much to care…

* * * * *

“Who’s Greg?”

“Hmmm?” Elias inquired, turning his head just enough to eye his second.

Anthony shrugged. “That cop; he called you ‘Greg’.”

“Ah. _That_ …” Elias grimaced, rubbing a hand over his head. “Sergeant Gregory Parker, Police Strategic Response Unit.”

“That unit,” Anthony breathed, earning a nod.

“My… _younger_ brother.” A smirk twitched. “By two minutes.”

Anthony considered the information. “So…why would he think _you’re_ Greg?”

Another twitch of the jaw. “We don’t discuss each other much, Anthony. No calls, no birthday greetings, no Christmas cards.” A pause. “However…I’m well aware of what my _brother_ has been up to of late.”

He felt his second’s burning curiosity and allowed another grimace.

“Vodka, mostly. Probably quite a bit of beer, possibly tequila for a bit of…spice…on occasion. He was suspended from duty several months ago.”

“And who was that?”

Elias shrugged. “Obviously, one of my brother’s former teammates.” He considered a moment, then tilted his head. “Don’t worry about my alcoholic of a twin, Anthony, or his former team. Find out how Castor found us.”

“Yessir.”

* * * * *

Shaking. Still shaking. Grief and loss and an ache in his _soul_ that just wouldn’t go away. So much for the tough as nails SRU cop who could take everything life threw at him without blinking. And while Wordy would _always_ be his _best friend_ , he just wasn’t enough. He needed Greg. They all did. To have him _back_ , if only for that _one_ precious instant…

Misery sent chills cascading down his spine, but he choked back the tears. No need to ruin the _rest_ of his reputation, after all. The phone vibrated in his grasp as he dialed, the display on the landline blurring. Ringing…good. Greg was gone; he had nothing left to give.

“H’ll’?”

“Greg.” Sorrow, anguish, and a silent plea. _Stop, Greg. Please stop…I want my_ friend _back._

“Edd’e? Y’u ‘k’y?”

Blurring…moisture against his face, chin and shoulders bowing under a load too heavy to carry. “Greg. Tell me you’re undercover,” Ed begged. “Tell me you lied to us and went undercover.” Trembling, shaking… _Please, I want my friend back._ “Please, Greg…”

“Ed?”

A choked sob, breaking past his defenses. “Tell me you saved my life and slammed me against the wall ‘cause I was stupid and almost broke your cover,” he pleaded. “Tell me…tell me you’re doing all that, not drowning yourself in every bottle you get near.”

“Eddie…” Soft, familiar, aching right along _with_ him. “Let it out, buddy. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Promise?” Ed choked.

A low, sorrowful chuckle. “I’m with you, Ed. To the end. Now talk to me, Ed. What happened tonight?”

Bit by bit, he told his boss what had happened. The warrant call, going in – the attack that had started _right_ as they got too far in to pull out. The shootout, the truce, meeting Carl Elias. All of it, good and bad; he even told Greg about little Jane and her fear of cops.

When he was done, his friend’s silence was thoughtful. Processing, weighing what he’d heard and how to react. “What was the name of your contact, Eddie?”

“Brenda Kastor,” Ed replied, startled at the other man’s sharp breath. “Greg?”

“Nothing, Eddie, just banged my elbow.”

The Sergeant winced. “Why they call that thing the _funny_ bone…”

“Copy _that_ ,” Greg agreed fervently. Then amusement trickled in. “The Pirate’s Code, Ed?”

Looking back at it, he laughed. “Spike got it before I did,” the sniper admitted sheepishly.

“All we need is Jack Sparrow and the _Black Pearl_ ,” his former boss joked.

“No skeletons, Boss,” Ed retorted.

“So…this… Carl Elias, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“He _looked_ like me, Eddie?”

“Spitting image, Greg. I…” He gulped, pain surging. “Boss…please, tell me he’s you.”

“Now, Eddie, you know me,” Greg chided. “Do you _honestly_ think I could go undercover like this all by myself? I’m not Roy, you know.”

“No,” Ed admitted. “Not by yourself, Boss.” Hope faded. “You’d need an anchor.”

After all, wasn’t _that_ how the ‘team sense’ had come about in the _first_ place? Greg, needing an anchor, reaching out to find six, ready and waiting. The team – it was too closely connected for Greg to pull a solo act like this one. It was one thing to trick subjects in the middle of a call, pulling snow jobs and short-term con jobs, pretending to be anything from security to a jealous ex, but long term? There was a reason they were SRU, not Intelligence Services.

_Could_ Greg pull an undercover gig off? Sure, he could, but _not_ alone. Not without someone to connect to, to remind him of who he _really_ was, keep him from drowning in his own invented persona. Not…not without jeopardizing every _scrap_ of progress he’d made since he’d gone cold turkey for a little orphan girl who’d _just_ lost her mother.

Realization was a hammer blow, right to the ribs. Elias…he _wasn’t_ Greg; he couldn’t be. And that meant…that meant Greg really _was_ in rehab because he’d buried himself in a bottle, _again_ , and turned his back on everything he’d worked for. Turned his back on _them_. He’d…he’d risked his _team_ for a wild goose chase, a chance that he _never_ should’ve taken.

“Eddie, Eddie, I’d have done it, too.”

What? “Greg?”

Soft, affectionate. “Come on, Eddie; someone who looks _just_ like a friend of mine? You had to take that chance. Besides, you guys all had your Auror badges, right?”

“Yeah,” Ed managed. “But that would’ve busted the Statute.”

Greg chuckled. “I seem to remember telling Brian that given a choice between keeping the _Statute_ and saving _lives_ …”

“We’d save lives every time,” Ed finished, emotions settling. “Copy that, Boss.”

A soft _hiss_ from the other end; the sniper froze in horror. “Anytime, Eddie,” Greg replied cheerfully, audibly taking a swig of his drink. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ve made my stash wait long enough.”

“Greg, please,” Ed pleaded. “Stop it. We miss you, Boss. Even…” His throat tightened. “Even if you _never_ come back to the SRU, you don’t have to keep doing this. Please.”

“It’s a good try, Ed,” Greg acknowledged. “I salute you.” He could practically _see_ Greg saluting the phone before swallowing another gulp of that _poison_.

“ _Fine_ ,” the Sergeant snarled, rage slamming sorrow aside as emotion boiled over and self-control evaporated. “ _Be_ that way!” He slammed the phone down, uncaring of whether Greg could get his side away in time. He _deserved_ what he _got_.

Panting, Ed stared at the landline, feeling the anger drain away. It was tempting, so very tempting, to give up on Greg, but he couldn’t. Give up on his family? Never, not _ever_. No matter how much it hurt.

_Please, Aslan…I want my brother back…_

There was no response save the ghost quiet whisper of the air conditioning. And the anguish of hope seen and lost again…


	6. Escalating Stakes

Commander Norm Holleran trudged into his office, doing his best to hide the aching, bone-deep exhaustion. Hours, days, weeks, _months_ , and still there was no end in sight. Castor Troy was still on the loose and Parker…

Grimacing, Norm flipped his office lights on and moved to the growing stack of paperwork towering on his desk. It would need to be dealt with. Soon. Idly, the commander browsed through the stack, pulling several more important papers out. When he was done thinning out the critical forms, he smirked and hefted the remainder off his desk, heading back out to the dispatcher desk.

When he reached the desk, he _thumped_ the paperwork down in front of his curious subordinate. “Winnie, inform Sergeant Roenick that I need all of this done by Friday. And if he needs help, he can recruit all his fellow Sergeants _except_ Lane.”

A mischievous smile spread across Winnie’s face, mirrored by the twinkle in Holleran’s eyes. “Yes, sir.”

Satisfied with his discrete punishment for the Sergeant who’d hung a fellow SRU team out to dry, Commander Holleran returned to his office. Enough was enough; it was time to bring the Castor Troy case to its ultimate conclusion. He was sick and tired of that _devil_ ripping apart his city. A knock on the door brought the commander to a halt, frowning at the interruption.

“Enter.”

The silver-haired man who entered drew a touch of surprise from the officer, along with a raised brow.

“Dr. Toth,” Holleran greeted, shaking the psychologist’s hand. “What can I do for you, sir?”

The doctor offered a thin, razor-sharp smile. “A mutual friend of ours got in touch, Commander.”

The commander’s jaw tightened, furrows appearing on his forehead. “How bad?” he asked, soft and wary.

Toth returned that solemn regard. “Our mutual friend _suggests_ that you keep your newest Sergeant and his team on a shorter _leash_. Perhaps keep them _away_ from wars they have no business being part of.”

Holleran stilled, absorbing the report. “What _happened_?” he demanded.

A sad, mournful shake of the head. “I’m afraid, Commander, for all that our mutual friend may appreciate me more than he once did, far too much has passed between us for _trust_.”

After a moment, Commander Holleran inclined his head in thanks. “I’ll take it from here,” he murmured.

“Of course; a pleasure to see you again, Commander, though I wish it were under better circumstances.” Dr. Toth turned, pausing at the door to look back. “Good luck.” With that, he was gone.

As soon as the doctor was gone, Holleran dug out his phone, flipping through the contacts to one simply marked Unknown. Rather than call the number, he sent a brief text message.

GOLDEN ARROW.

Message sent, the commander went to his closet, digging through the contents. A lightweight bulletproof vest sailed through the air, landing on his desk; the extra magazines and a sturdy, but discrete gun belt followed more sedately. Leaving his stash littered on the desk, Holleran shifted his search to the desk drawers; a low huff of approval accompanied his triumphant tug at a hefty black binder packed with notes and bulging at the seams. A quick snatch at his topmost, shallow drawer netted him a pen for the binder, both items joining the already cluttered desk top. The officer flipped through the thick book, scowl growing at the contents.

Partway through, his phone rang, the dulcet tones of the Mission Impossible theme shattering the still air as it poured from tiny speakers. Holleran snatched the device up, thumbing the answer button as he brought it up to his ear. “Norm here.”

“It’s good to hear your voice, Norm.” Warm, smooth, with just a hint of elegant. “You received my message, I trust?”

“ _You_ are having _entirely_ too much fun with the fancy,” Holleran accused, shifting to lean against his desk, a smile playing at his mouth.

No laugh, no responding, knowing chuckle; a chill went up his back. “We have a problem, Norman.”

“How bad?”

A pause, weighing what to say and how to say it. “Your men tried to execute a warrant last night, Norman. They… _interrupted_ …an exchange between my men and Troy’s.” A breath, hesitation before dropping the bomb. “The warrant was signed by Brenda Kastor.”

The curse was instant – instinct and air hissed against his teeth in a snarl. “You’re sure?”

“I am.” Another pause. “I reached out to a number of interested parties on this matter; they’ve confirmed my suspicions.”

Dark eyes sharpened. “And what suspicions would those be?”

“Brenda has a brother. Two, in fact.”

Ice, straight down his back, as the pieces fell into place. The horrible truth. The _implications…_ “I’m calling Pirra on this…”

“No.” Firm, unyielding. “We _know_. She will not expect that. Nor will she expect our contingency plan.”

True. Holleran didn’t like it, but he had little choice. _She’d_ done her work too well for them to have any real wiggle room _now_. Forcing himself to calm down, he inquired, “The usual spot?”

“Naturally. I’ll be in touch, Norm.”

The phone clicked off. For several seconds, the commander stared at his desk, unseeing as the facts soaked in. Fury stirred, rising to a rapid boil. _Enough._ It was time to _end_ this. Time to _bring his people home_.

* * * * *

It wasn’t that simple of course. In fact, it took a good day and a half to set up his plan, confirm his suspicions, and arrange for a new contingency. Circumstances might have forced his hand, but he would no longer allow them to dictate his response. He would no longer allow them to hurt _his_ people.

A pre-arranged message was sent, the reply narrowly regarded, even as the commander nodded approval. The tall, lean commander left his office and headed for the atrium, stopping at the dispatcher desk.

“Winnie, I’m heading out for awhile.”

“Yes, sir,” she acknowledged.

So much he wanted to say, but that would risk everything, so he merely tipped his chin and left. Head high, shoulders back, jaw set. It was time.

One way or another, the nightmare would be over soon.

* * * * *

Ed avoided Wordy’s concerned gaze as he geared up, donning his bullet-proof vest, but leaving his equipment vest for when they got an actual call. In a very real way, he was still…numb. He’d never realized before just how _cruel_ hope could be. The knife it _twisted_ in your chest, the elation that turned to naught but crushing, punishing despair. The shame it left behind as the consequences of your actions sank in.

“Ed?”

“Yeah, Word?”

“You okay?” Genuine worry backed by honest concern.

The words came, rising automatically, only to run square into an observation Greg had made a _lifetime_ ago.

_“You may want to do the math one day on all the ‘I’m fine’s.”_

His stomach wrenched, nausea bubbling. His voice sounded distant. Echoing. “No, Wordy, I’m not.” Blue slid closed, wresting with the truth. “I’m really not.”

A part of Ed had always known Team One couldn’t last forever. Sooner or later, they would all have to move on. Promotion, transfer, retirement. Any – or all – of the above. It was just… Never, not in a _million_ , _billion_ years would he have _dreamed_ it would be because _Greg_ fell off the wagon. He’d dreaded the fallout if one of them _died_ , but Greg slipping back into alcohol after so many years? The possibility had been so remote as to be laughable.

Until…until it _hadn’t_ been. The images flew through his mind yet again; charging into the locker room to see Greg and Holleran squaring off. The bottles he’d found in Greg’s locker; the _additional_ bottles Wordy had found in their friend’s bedroom – though the _rest_ of the apartment had been clean. His…promotion…

Dear _Lord_ , that part hurt. _Always_ , when he’d thought of that distant, far-off day when – if – he got promoted to Sergeant, Greg had been there. In the background, firm and supportive as always, reassuring him that he was _ready_ , that he’d learned all he needed to. Maybe…maybe not on the _team_ any more, but still _there_. Pride fairly _glowing_ as he watched his team leader soar.

Instead, he’d been shoved into the role without so much as a warning. No hint, no clue, no _chance_ to keep his friend from falling. There’d been no opportunity to prepare, to brace himself for the consequences of taking on _Greg’s_ chevrons, standing in _his_ place. Only the pain and agony of a best friend lost while he floundered in uncharted, stormy waters. Playing _politics_ with so-called _colleagues_ quick to take advantage of the brand-new Team One Sergeant. Struggling to keep his shattered, heart-broken team afloat and knit them back together. An impossible task without their cornerstone, their guiding light, their _leader_. Without Greg…they weren’t _whole_.

They hadn’t given Greg their free will – they’d given him their _souls_. Or…at least _part_ of them. And _he_ had given _his_ soul _back_ to them; though Ed instinctively knew that the links _weren’t_ between _souls_ , it was so close as made no nevermind. Was it really any wonder that Greg had broken under the weight of that responsibility? The _keeping_ of their _souls_ …it was more than any human could bear. The question was, how did they _reverse_ that? How did they _reclaim_ their souls without hurting each other – or Greg – any more than they already _had_?

He didn’t know. The only thing Ed _was_ sure of was that Team One couldn’t last much longer without their center. Without _Greg_. Aching blue lifted to grieving gray, both men understanding without words. There _were_ no words that could describe what it felt like to go through every _day_ without a piece of yourself. Nothing to express what that _loss_ had done – _was doing_ – to them.

Only pain and grief and longing for it to _end_. For their boss, their best friend, their brother by spirit to come _home_.

* * * * *

Constable Winnie Camden kept her head down, careful not to look at the increasingly woebegone looks on the faces of her favorite team. Really, she was an _SRU_ dispatcher, not Team One, but that had never seemed to make much of a difference to Sergeant Parker and his guys. She worked with Team One, so she _was_ Team One, official designations notwithstanding.

Sighing, the dispatcher carefully hefted up the massive stack of paperwork slated for Sergeant Roenick. She’d left it to sit on the upper counter of the dispatcher desk for the past day, but she needed to move it before the stack got in someone’s way or got knocked over. A loose paper slipped free as she lifted the huge pile; Winnie muttered furiously under her breath, but finished moving the stack before bending to scoop up the fallen paper. It had landed facedown, so she turned it over, rolling her eyes when it proved to be upside down. A second turn brought the sheet to a readable orientation; Winnie smiled, then the words sank in and she gasped, eyes widening as she lifted a hand to her mouth.

Quickly, she stuffed the paper out of sight and sat back down at her desk. Just in time; Ed and Wordy peeked out of the briefing room, concern shining. Winnie smiled back at them, heart thudding in her chest. When they withdrew, she pulled the sheet of paper out again, dark eyes going wider and wider. Two signatures adorned the bottom, awaiting only one more to be official. Gently, Winnie brushed the middle with her fingers, the implications…mind boggling. As was the _date_ …

_Did he_ know _?_ she wondered. _Did he_ know _what their commander had in store for him?_ In that instant, Winnie realized the paper in her hands changed _everything_. It wasn’t _the_ answer to everything that had happened, but now… Now she had _hope_.

The phone rang and Winnie snapped to attention, quietly hiding the paper again. “Police Strategic Response Unit.”

“Yeah,” the man on the phone drawled. “You, ah, you might wanna toddle on down to Metro General. Pick up that commander of yours.”

The line went dead, leaving Winnie staring at her screen in utter horror. Then she slammed the alarm.

* * * * *

Ed hit the Emergency Room doors at a dead run, his team right on his heels. Inside, a white-coated doctor waited, expression grave. His silver hair, neat mustache, and keen brown eyes were familiar, but the Sergeant wasn’t interested in solving _that_ particular mystery. “How is he?” he demanded, coming to a halt in front of the doctor.

“Sergeant Lane?” the other man questioned.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Ed confirmed, impatience gleaming.

“Dr. Mark Sloan, Sergeant. Your commander is extremely lucky he was wearing a vest.” He let that hang, then elaborated, “Four bullets, three in center mass and one that hit right at the edge of the armor. That’s our biggest problem at the moment.”

“Wh…what do you mean?”

The doctor gestured for the group to follow him and led them deeper into the hospital, well away from curious, prying eyes. “The center mass rounds gave his system a shock, but, as I said, the vest took them.”

Ed nodded, well aware his teammates were hanging on every word, their expressions just on the edge of panic – like his.

“The _final_ round…” The doctor sighed heavily. “It hit right at the edge, went through, then ricocheted off the back piece of armor.”

“Going deeper into his body,” Lou concluded grimly.

“Precisely.” Turning to them, Sloan’s scowl deepened. “At the moment, Commander Holleran is in surgery; fortunately, he’s in excellent health otherwise, so I expect him to pull through once we get the bullet out and repair most of the internal damage.”

“What else is there?” Jules questioned shrewdly. “You could’ve had a nurse come tell us all this.”

A brief huff. “My patient was extremely agitated when he came to and I informed him we didn’t have his phone. He gave me an address and was _very_ insistent that I ensure that a Sergeant Lane and his team were the _only_ ones to receive that address.”

Team One traded swift glances, then Ed turned to the doctor, arching a brow. “Where are we goin’, Doc?”

Dr. Sloan offered a note card he’d scrawled the address on. “I apologize for my writing…” he began.

Ed passed the card to Lou without even glancing at it. “No problem…Spike here is worse.”

“Hey!”

“Lou’s used to translating,” the Sergeant finished smoothly. “Anything else you can tell us, Doctor?”

Sloan considered, thoughtful as he rubbed his mustache. “Nothing more about your commander, I’m afraid,” he replied, words slow. “The man who brought him in… I wouldn’t have expected it of him, to be honest.”

“You know him?” Jules pressed instantly.

The doctor shook his head. “No, but I know the type, Constable. He had that look, if you know what I mean. Usually on the _wrong_ side of the law, not dragging in a cop who’s bleeding to death.”

Team One traded swift, unnerved glances, then Wordy leaned forward and asked, “What did he look like?”

The elder man frowned, closing his eyes briefly as if to summon up the memory of the scene. “Oh, about my height, I’d say, just a touch shorter than me; dark hair, brown eyes.” Blue opened again and the doctor sketched a ‘C’ shape on his face, starting right at the corner of his eye. “A scar like so, just a thin line. Not much of an accent that I could hear.” At the surprise the officers couldn’t hide, Sloan graced them with a smile. “My son is a detective; most of the family is, actually. I’m a bit of a black sheep, but I get along.”

“I’ll say,” Spike muttered; the doctor had just given them a better description than most active duty _cops_ would.

“Got it!” Lou hissed.

Ed turned, letting a steely glint shine as he regarded his team. “Okay, let’s move.”

* * * * *

Three trucks swooped in from every direction, sirens wailing indignation and outrage. Team One hit the ground running, rage taut, but masked by professionalism. Weapons were checked, Wordy and Lou retrieving shields; given who’d likely brought their commander in, odds were that Holleran had gotten shot in some sort of gang hit gone wrong. Though none of them had been able to figure out why _Scarface_ would save a _cop_.

When the team was ready, Ed ordered, “Okay, move in, guys; Jules, Spike, stay low.”

“Copy,” the pair chorused.

After a moment, Jules asked, “Spike, any idea which tombstone we’re looking for?” In addition to the address of what had turned out to be a cemetery, Holleran’s relayed instructions had included a _name_ , which Team One suspected was a _particular_ grave marker within the grounds.

Over the comm, the bomb tech made a frustrated noise. “It’s an old cemetery, guys, with lousy records. No luck on the name Dr. Sloan gave us.”

“Spike, I got a lock on the phone,” Lou called.

“Great work, buddy,” Spike enthused.

“Lou,” Ed growled, order implicit.

“South, Boss,” Lou replied at once. “Spike, head northwest; Wordy, northeast.”

The groups moved in a three-way pincer move, swooping in with deadly grace and silence, weapons up. Wordy and Lou kept their shields up and ready, but the maneuver was all but wasted – there was no one there. No bodies, no gang members lying in wait – nothing. Only the wind stirring the grass around a lonely stretch of tombstones, whistling just a little as it played through aged marble and brass vases filled with flowers, most of the plants faded and wilted.

Then Ed saw it. Ricochet marks right at the edge of a taller tombstone. Blood, in a good-sized puddle, just beyond it; he could almost _see_ Holleran diving for cover, bullets keeping his head down until he could be flanked. The commander turning to face his attacker, staggering as the nearly lethal shots struck, collapsing as that last bullet penetrated his armor.

The image evaporated. “Gun,” Ed called, crouching next to the standard issue Glock right by the blood. Almost certainly Holleran’s. Cautious, the Sergeant lifted the weapon, inspecting it. He sniffed at the barrel, then popped the magazine to confirm his suspicions. “Six rounds fired,” he reported.

“I’ve got his phone,” Lou informed his teammates, scooping up the device in question.

“Guys…”

Ed looked up, Jules and Wordy turned, and Lou paused in the middle of opening their commander’s phone. Spike was standing in a small bushy area right next to one of the nearby tombstones. No, Ed realized, _the_ tombstone; the name on the smooth marble was the _exact_ name Dr. Sloan had given them. Right down to the inscription and the _dates_.

The bomb tech crouched, grabbing hold of something in the brush. When he straightened, Ed’s breath caught. A bundle of files and folders, painstakingly wrapped in saran and hidden in the middle of a cemetery. A dead drop – _literally_. Holleran had come here, Holleran had known _exactly_ where those files were. He’d been ambushed, but his attackers had _not_ known about the files.

Emotion burned within Ed’s chest. Files, dead drop, _Holleran_. Something was missing, why was an _SRU commander_ checking a dead drop used by an undercover? Unless…

“Guys…”

All heads turned to a paling Lou. He held up Holleran’s phone, skin going a milky chocolate hue.

“Brenda Kastor is Castor Troy’s sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Tomorrow is Halloween. Not as much fun this year because of the pandemic, but still. Halloween. So in between gorging on candy and doing what trick or treating we can this year, please drop by for this year's Magical Flashpoint Halloween story!
> 
> Happy 2020 Halloween!


	7. You Cannot Have My Family

Carl Elias was in the middle of his morning workout when his phone rang, the soft chime echoing in the mid-sized room. Frowning, the mob boss pushed himself up from where he’d been doing his third set of crunches. Snagging a handy towel to wipe down his forehead, he strode over to the phone and snapped it up, casting the caller ID the briefest of glances.

“You have news for me, Anthony?”

His second audibly fidgeted. “You ain’t gonna like it, Boss.”

Brown narrowed behind wire frames. “ _Anthony_.”

“That cop you wanted me to keep an eye on? He got shot, real bad.”

Elias’s free hand clenched and he kept his voice even with an effort. In a light, nonchalant, almost disinterested tone at odds with white knuckles, he inquired, “Will he live?”

“Don’t know,” Anthony admitted. “I got ‘im to the hospital, Boss. Best I could do.”

“I see,” Elias murmured. “Did you see who shot him?”

“Sorry, Boss,” Anthony replied. “I only realized sommat was wrong when the cop didn’t come back outta the cemetery real quick. By the time I got to ‘im, he was down and bleedin’.”

The knuckles were going whiter, a terrific scowl on the crime lord’s face, but still his tone remained casual. “And the files?”

Anthony exhaled and fear rang. “Still there, Boss. Was more worried ‘bout gettin’ the cop to the hospital. You, ah, you want me to go get ‘em?”

“No, Anthony, that won’t be necessary,” Elias reassured his second. “You did well and I’m sure by now the _cops_ are swarming. No need to make trouble for ourselves.”

For several moments, he regarded the window in the opposite wall, watching the sunlight streaming in, painting light and shadows alike on the floor. A single exhale, then hazel hardened, turning to topaz behind his glasses. Furrows carved their way across his forehead and his jaw tightened in resolution. _Enough._

“Anthony,” he said, voice sharp. “I’m sending you an address. Meet me there.”

* * * * *

Wind whistled around the lonely, long-abandoned factory near the outskirts of Toronto. The smokestack jutted into the sky, a reminder of better, happier days, but the factory gates were old and rusted, the parking lot shot through with cracks, potholes, and spots where the pavement had buckled – depressions in the formerly smooth surface marking where heavily loaded trucks had once plied their trade.

He’d been here before, though he remembered little enough of his very first visit. Elias pushed the memories away, just as he always did. He didn’t have time for that, nor the focus to spare. Keen brown studied the exterior, searching for any hint, any sign that his preparations had been discovered and tampered with. The plan was foolhardy and beyond risky, but it was the best one he had. _She’d_ ensured he had no one else to call upon – an elegant trap if ever there was one; he’d walked into it, eyes wide open, but still unseeing his _real_ danger.

He turned at the sound of a car engine, a faint smile crossing his face at the sight of Anthony’s vehicle. One last scene in this play, then he could stop the act. Bring decades of pain and tragedy to one final conclusion. The mob boss spared one more moment to breathe in, holding memory close, then he turned, donning his well-practiced mask. Just like always.

His second parked, then jumped out, jogging over. “Boss?”

“Anthony.”

Elias took in the honest concern on the younger man’s face, sighing inwardly. He’d watched this man learn and grow, even if he’d inadvertently hampered that growth during their first meeting. For such a would-be tough guy, Anthony had quite a hand with children; they _knew_ he would protect them, no matter what, and they responded to that, ignoring the mobster growls and glares. And Anthony, who’d gotten little enough affection throughout his life, was secretly pleased and reveled in the children’s admiration. A good man, a good _second_ , even if he lurked on the wrong side of the law. Pity this was their last meeting.

“Sommat wrong, Boss?”

He considered a moment, then replied, “I’m afraid so, Anthony. The cop I had you watching, he’s my brother’s former commanding officer.”

Anthony jerked in surprise and to attention.

“That was no random shooting, Anthony; I have little doubt that he was _targeted_.”

“By the upstart.”

Elias inclined his chin.

“But why, Boss? Why target a drunk who’s not even on-duty anymore?”

For a long minute, the wind whistled around them, skating through the smokestack far above their heads. Then Elias sighed. “Because, Anthony, my brother was the cop who arrested him all those years ago.”

Anthony froze in place, except for his jaw, which dropped open.

A flash of amusement gleamed. “Don’t be so surprised, Anthony. My brother always _did_ have a tendency to do the right thing, regardless of the consequences.” Hazel darkened. “And there _were_ consequences, Anthony. Grave and severe consequences.”

“Your family,” Anthony breathed.

Elias snorted, derision clear. “Troy never _bothered_ ,” he snapped. “He knew just as well as _us_ that we were well _shot_ of our so-called _parents_.” An unfeigned sneer curled the crime lord’s lip. “Our _father_ drank away every penny he earned and then some. Mother stood by him the whole time; you don’t leave your husband, not in the _Church_. Not when he knocks your sons into walls every other day and shows up to work drunk four days out of five. Not even when he starts knocking _you_ around _every_ day.” A breath and Elias forced himself to calm down. “My brother was just out of the Police Academy, Anthony – marriage was years off in the future and we’d already gone our separate ways. There _was_ no family to threaten. Not then.”

“But now there is.”

Ahhh…he’d known Anthony would understand. Elias nodded once. “My…my nephew.” His jaw tightened, determination blazing. “I won’t let Troy have him. Once he gets tired of _toying_ with my brother’s fellow officers, he’ll come for the boy.” Pure _topaz_ narrowed. “I won’t let that happen, Anthony, even if I have to go down _myself_.”

“So…you’re gonna risk your life for a _cop_?”

“For my _nephew_ ,” Elias retorted.

Anthony smirked. “Don’t you mean your _son_?”

Startled hazel swung to Anthony, caught off guard.

“It’s a good story, Boss, but you don’t _have_ a twin, do you? _You’re_ that SRU Sergeant, just like that cop said.”

_Ed…Eddie, Eddie, Eddie…_ Greg Parker smiled at Anthony, accepting the curveball. “All this time, you’ve known I’m a cop and you didn’t make a move?”

Embarrassed, Anthony shrugged, fidgeting. “Never had a boss I could be proud of, you know? Never had a boss that made _me_ proud of myself.”

For a long moment, Greg regarded the other man. “I’m sorry you’ve never had that before.” Then, rather than let the words hang and embarrass Anthony even _more_ , he turned, regarding the factory instead of the flushing mobster. “The organization’s yours, Anthony.”

“But Boss…” Anthony protested.

“No.” Greg’s voice was soft. “I’m a cop, I’m SRU; that will never change. I was only sent undercover because of Castor Troy, Anthony.” He drew in a breath, held it. “And this is likely my last stand, anyway.”

“What…what do you mean, Boss?”

The Sergeant looked up at the factory. “Holleran’s down,” he murmured. “I won’t let Troy have my _family_ , Anthony. He wants me, he’s gonna _get_ me. But not on _his_ terms.”

Anthony followed his gaze, paling. “You…what have you done?”

Greg refused to flinch. “In thirty minutes, I’m sending a message to my undercover handler with this location and the tiny tidbit that I’ll be completely _alone_ since we need to meet.” He glanced over at Anthony. “With Commander Holleran down, it will look legit; I’ll need a new backup handler.”

“Your _handler_ sold you out?” Anthony hissed.

A sardonic smirk. “Took me awhile to put the pieces together, but Eddie confirmed it for me.” Not that Eddie _knew_ he’d done that. “She won’t be able to resist; she’ll send Troy here.” Brown narrowed. “And that’s when I’ll spring my trap.”

“I can help, Boss,” Anthony volunteered. “You don’t have to take that _scum_ alone.”

“ _No_.” Not iron, adamantium. Greg pulled off the glasses he’d been using as part of his mob boss persona and met the other man’s gaze, every _bit_ the _cop_ he _truly_ was. “It’s a death trap, Anthony. Once I set it off, _no one_ inside is going to survive. I made sure of that.” He let that hang, then drove forward. “I won’t sign your death warrant, Anthony. Castor Troy made his choice a long time ago and he’ll walk into this thinking he finally has me. He won’t suspect that I _know_ he’s coming or that I’m willing to commit suicide if that means he can’t hurt my family.”

Anthony shook his head frantically. “There’s gotta be another way. Maybe…maybe if we put a phone in there…”

“I’m touched that you’re willing to protect a _cop_ ,” Greg drawled, “but for all that I’ve put into this setup, it _won’t_ be a death trap in the first minute or so. If Troy smells a trap, he’ll get away. The only way to keep him from realizing until it’s too late is for me to be _here_.” His gaze softened. “You’re gonna be just fine, Anthony. You’ve already got all the tools you need to survive without me and keep this organization thriving. But maybe teach the littles that between predators and cops, they should chose the cops. Eddie and Wordy were a little hurt that Jane was afraid of them.” More than a little, but he had no right to say more. Not now, when he was about to spring this trap and probably end up dead.

Anthony stared at him, wide-eyed. “They really _are_ your crew,” he whispered, earning a nod.

Greg straightened from the slight slouch he’d acquired during the conversation and held out a hand. “Goodbye, Anthony.” A faint smile reappeared. “And keep to the Code.”

That startled a bark of laughter from the mobster. “Take all you can,” he recited, shaking the officer’s hand.

The Sergeant didn’t finish the sentence, his gaze turning sorrowful again. He turned and strode towards the factory, head high and shoulders back.

“Boss!”

Pausing, Greg glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow rising.

For a moment, Anthony chewed on his words, then he yelled, “Hang the Code and hang the rules! They’re more like guidelines anyway!”

A broad smile spread across Sergeant Parker’s features before he looked forward, determination glowing. He would finish this. He _would_. One hand drifted down and tapped twice against a certain spot on his belt.

His Auror badge reappeared, the proud eagle letting out a silent cry. The Game was on.

* * * * *

The final preparations didn’t take long – Spike would either be proud of him for picking up so many bomb tricks or appalled that _he’d_ taught his boss how to make such a _lethal_ trap. Greg smiled to himself as he finished connecting the last bomb to the daisy chain. One button press would set all of the bombs off in a precisely controlled sequence. From the first to the last would take roughly half a minute, then another thirty seconds to when the newborn flames found the accelerant and turned the old factory into a four-sided blaze that would cut off any – and all – attempts at escape.

The bombs themselves were small, only large enough to trigger the fire; he didn’t need Castor Troy catching on before the flames took hold. If he was lucky, Troy wouldn’t realize what was going on until the smoke started rising. Which would take longer due to the carefully positioned fans he’d placed on the factory floor; they would run until the fire cut off the power.

As he worked, his thoughts drifted to his family. How he _wished_ he could have told Lance and Alanna the _truth_ , but that would have jeopardized the whole scheme. It had been absolutely _critical_ that Troy never had so much as an _inkling_ about his young cousins. Crucial that the kids went to Wordy as quickly as possible, their information buried as deeply as Holleran could manage. To be parted from them had burned like the strongest acid, but better that then to wind up holding their broken, battered bodies, screaming at the uncaring sky in anguish.

* * * * *

_The undercover cop knew he was taking a risk, but he had to know. Had to_ see _. Judge Dale Gordinski had been one of the best trial judges in the city up until his retirement. He’d presided over hundreds of trials during his tenure, earning a reputation among the city’s law enforcement for being fair and honorable; a gentleman and a scholar who was no man’s fool and wasn’t afraid to keep a weapon at hand during some of the more…contentious…trials under his auspice. More than one cop had regretted His Honor’s retirement even as they raised a glass to him and wished him well._

_And now… Hidden in a trenchcoat and in the depths of the onlookers, behind Carl Elias’s spectacles and cold, disinterested expression, Sergeant Greg Parker watched as the judge and his wife were brought out of their townhouse on stretchers, draped in white sheets – rumor held the townhouse was too bloody to bring body bags inside for fear of contaminating the scene even worse than the stretchers already had._

_Gryphon hearing caught the furious whispers between the unis and the detectives on-scene. Not just the judge and his wife, then. Brown eyes closed in grief. His daughter, son-in-law, and two infant granddaughters. Damn it. Damn_ him _, damn him to the depths of_ hell _. Kids. Children,_ infants _. Greg had little doubt that the judge had been the_ last _to die. How better to_ punish _a dead man walking. Taunt him one last time before the guillotine fell._

_Quietly, with no outward emotions besides neighborly concern and rubbernecking, Carl Elias worked his way out of the crowd, slipping back into the misty morning unnoticed. The crime lord frowned, already working through his strategy for how to_ respond _to Castor Troy’s latest assault on the city’s criminal justice system. Inside, the police Sergeant he truly was seethed and vowed anew to_ never _let Castor Troy near his_ family _._

* * * * *

After that, he’d worked even harder to drive his team away, playing the part of the drunken ex-cop with a _serious_ chip on his shoulder to perfection. The more his team sought to maintain their connection to him, the greater the risk to _them_ , to his _kids_. So he pushed and snarled and spat, using skills gained from a _lifetime_ in law enforcement to best advantage, manipulating those he cared about into believing he _hated_ them, _resented_ them, and was happily occupied in drinking himself to death.

Only Ed had refused to give up, pushing back just as hard. Only Ed had maintained faith that he could be saved, brought back to the Greg Parker he knew and valued. The newest SRU Sergeant had proven his mettle, somehow _seeing_ what _none_ of the others did. Or maybe it was just Lane tenacity at its finest. Either way, as the weeks dragged on, it had become more and more difficult to maintain the act and escalate to new depths of drunken tantrums. By that last conversation, Greg had all but run out of tricks to play. Not to mention he’d gotten _awfully_ tired of guzzling bottled Coke whenever Eddie called. Frankly, if he _never_ drank another bottle of Coke, it would still be too soon.

Naturally, therefore, _that_ had been when Ed had broken the whole case wide-open. Once Ed had given him that critical hint, the clues had all been there, staring him right in the face. Greg had cursed his own stupidity even as he pumped his contacts and confirmed the obvious. He’d walked right into a trap, abandoning his own backup _just_ when he needed it _most_.

And yet…

* * * * *

_Morose, Greg regarded Carl Elias’s apartment, already longing for his_ own _. His messy, loud apartment with two growing teenagers and a perpetually empty ‘fridge. He wandered to the apartment kitchen and scowled at the empty shelves, the vacant refrigerator._ That _was coming out of the expense money he’d been given – how was he supposed to be a_ mob boss _with no_ food _?_

_The cop located a handy pad of paper and started making a list. An idea prickled…if his team tried to contact him – as they almost_ certainly _would, he needed a way to trick them. Convince them that he was drinking like a fish – without_ actually _getting_ drunk _. Perhaps some of those old style glass soda bottles? A definite possibility._

_Inside, the ‘team sense’ nudged at him, trying, once again, to get him to turn it ‘on’. Greg stilled. Beyond his own ambivalence and outright_ hatred _of the ‘team sense’, there was the practical concern that his team would have access to his mind and emotions. How could he_ trick _them when they could sense the_ truth _through the links? He had much less practice than they with emotional shielding and he knew for a fact that he tended to ‘broadcast’ more readily than his teammates. He was getting better, but this situation…his emotions were going to be all over the map; he didn’t need his teammates figuring out he was snowing them right in the middle of one of the most dangerous ops of his_ life _. And he was_ not _going to_ order _them to_ not notice _. The guilt alone…he’d end up halfway down a bottle for_ real _._

_Grim, the Sergeant mentally ‘summoned’ his magic to the forefront of his mind and icily laid out the situation, thrusting the_ truth _– that to have_ contact _with his team was to_ risk _their safety – at that protective layer of gryphon instinct. His gryphon side growled and snapped, insisting that he was being_ stupid _to leave his_ Pride _behind; Greg held firm, thrusting facts – old and new – at the creature. He would not risk his team, he would not risk his_ kids _. That…that broke the standoff, his gryphon side bowing to his judgment, though Greg had little doubt his wild side still regarded him an utter fool._

_Fine, whatever. As long as it stopped bugging him about the ‘team sense’, it could call him whatever it liked. Tension eased out of his shoulders, as though the reduction in mental pressure was enough. Not enough to make his situation better, but… Enough to give him a light at the end of the tunnel. Heart, mind, and soul with not so much as a_ hint _of someone else. How long had it been since he was_ truly _alone in his head? Not just ‘off-duty’ for a night and a day. Oh, he knew he wasn’t_ free _of the ‘team sense’, but the longer he could leave it off, the better._

_Now…about that grocery list…_

* * * * *

The first couple of days had been odd…he’d kept waiting for that prickle in the back of his mind, for that surge from his gryphon side bypassing him to _force_ the ‘team sense’ on. But the more time had gone by, the more he’d been able to relax. Even revel, after a fashion, in no longer having anyone _besides_ himself in his head. He hadn’t even _realized_ that just having the ‘team sense’ _on_ meant having that low-level flow of foreign emotions in the background. The constant tension of sensing his teammates’ locations and how they were doing. For every advantage, there was a disadvantage, even if only in the form of stress that had built up over _years_ , wearing him down just as surely as the ocean wore at reefs and stone.

He would never be the young, idealistic cop he’d been that day when he’d walked into a bar to blow off some steam after work and spotted the city’s most notorious crime lord ordering a drink, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Castor Troy knew the cop he’d _been_ , not the cop he’d _become_ , and that would be his undoing. Troy had no idea that he was up against a cop who’d faced off with far worse enemies; for all of the crime lord’s downright _cruelty_ , he was nothing compared to Moffet or Morgana le Fay.

Brenda might’ve tricked him into leaving his _team_ behind, but if she and her brother thought he needed his _team_ to stand up to them, well… Best not to interrupt them as they made their mistakes. Because for all that Greg Parker was a negotiator, he was every _bit_ as much a SWAT cop as any member of Team One. And one measly little crime lord wasn’t enough to bring _him_ down, not on their lives.

A grim smile crossed Greg’s face as he brought up a message on his phone and sent it. For better or for worse, it was time to end this. He wasn’t going to get a better shot than this. Mentally, he reached out, letting his magic fill him while he brushed the ‘team sense’, but left it off. His team was with him, if only in his memories. His head was high, shoulders back, spine straight. The burdens he carried set aside in favor of the fast approaching battle. Ironic. In isolating him, cutting him off from those he cared about, Brenda had given him a breather. Time to set down everything he’d been carrying around and deal with it. Slowly, steadily, with enough day to day distraction to keep depression at bay.

They wanted a fight? They were gonna _get_ one, brought to them by a Greg Parker who’d faced his past and made peace with it. He wasn’t the naïve cop he’d been that day, nor the drunk he’d been over a decade ago. He was Team One’s Sergeant, the city’s top negotiator, and he was a Squib-born Auror with Wild Magic and a gryphon Animagus form. Straddling two worlds, with the advantages and disadvantages of both.

“All right, guys,” he whispered. “Let’s keep the peace.” Then he pulled out his service weapon and racked the slide back a tad, just enough to check his first round. Eighteen shots. He’d better make every last _one_ of them count.

* * * * *

Greg watched as they entered – _they_. So…in the end, Brenda was every bit as bad as her brother for the dramatic flare, the incendiary stand-off. She wanted to gloat, to rub his nose in his stupidity. Pity for her he’d _never_ trusted her. Holleran, he trusted, Locksley and Toth, he trusted. Not her, _never_ her; his instincts had gone off the moment he’d met her, screaming warning. Something about her had twigged his sixth sense, reminding him of a certain Witch who’d hidden right in the heart of the city she was busily betraying.

Two, though…that would make this a touch more complicated. Oh, he could _handle_ a two-on-one fight, but he would’ve preferred not to. He would’ve preferred to _arrest_ Brenda, not kill her. Precious little he could do now, though; she’d made her choice, every bit as much as her brother had. He wouldn’t let her presence endanger his family.

So Greg watched as the siblings strolled into the factory, arrogance practically wafting off them. He leaned against the wall, right at the top of an upper catwalk that had once allowed the factory’s office workers to watch operations safely from above. That might’ve even been used by the odd tour group, eager to see the factory in its heyday. He’d picked a spot where the catwalk met a corridor that led further into the building’s second floor. Plenty of shadows for him and easy to watch his opponents move inwards. Right into his trap.

Castor, it seemed, had caught on, for he was looking around, smug smile dropping off his face. Blue eyes scanned the room beneath a high forehead and bushy brows. A sharp nose, plus closely cut and groomed brown hair set off the crime lord’s clean-shaved chin with its tiny cleft.

Time to give them another whiff of the cheese. Greg strolled forward, leaning against the catwalk’s railing. “Hello, Brenda.”

Both siblings looked up, taken aback when they realized he’d been waiting for them. _Expecting_ them. Brenda stepped back, then sneered, lifting her chin. “Surprised, Greggy?”

“Not particularly,” Greg replied, discreetly triggering the device in his left hand. “Though I suppose the Italian mob boss was a nice touch. Pity it meant I could fight you more effectively. No pesky rules about procedure and evidence.”

Troy’s gaze lit up. “You _enjoyed_ it,” he cried, delighted. “You’ve been having _fun!_ ” The crime lord clicked his tongue. “You’re much more entertaining than that killjoy Archer.” The mental picture clicked into place. Castor Troy, like the Joker or Professor Moriarty, was more interested in destruction than anything else. He was a force of Chaos, almost _always_ the negative kind, and cared nothing for his victims. Only the challenge interested him – that and the delight of bringing his opponents down to _his_ level.

Greg kept his voice level and even. “You’d be surprised what a man will do to protect his family,” he remarked. For _them_ alone, he’d discarded his cop side and buried himself in an Italian mobster. For his _kids_ , he’d become one of Toronto’s top criminals, forcing a stalemate with the monster in front of him. And for his team, for his kids, for his _family_ , he was putting everything on the line to ensure Castor Troy _never_ killed anyone else, _ever_ again.

Troy sneered. “You seem to think you’re going to _win_. Against _me_.”

One brow arched. “ _You_ seem to think I’m worried about _surviving_ this.” A smirk of his own. “I’m not. Even if it costs me everything, _you cannot have my family_.” Ferocity rang, backed by a gryphon’s snarl. “You want to bring me down?” The smirk turned cruel. “Gimme your best _shot_.”

Dropping the now useless detonator, he backed up a step and slammed his fist against the lights, killing them. Then he launched forward and vaulted over the railing. Gunshots rang out, the bullets impacting with his previous location. Gryphon wings snapped out, catching his fall, cushioning his landing. The wings flared in the shadows, ready for his next move; Greg ran through the darkness, trusting all the practice he’d gotten in to know _exactly_ where everything around him was. When he reached another doorway, he turned towards where the siblings had been, pulled his Glock, brought it up, and fired twice. One hand slapped another set of controls as he twisted around and sprang upwards, pushing off the wall; light flared in the factory for a split second, illuminating the Troy siblings’ locations.

Castor swiveled, howling as he opened fire with a spray ‘n’ pray; every bullet missed the fleet Sergeant already back on the second floor catwalk. His wings vanished as soon as he regained the higher ground – no need to give _Troy_ another _target_. Greg kept moving, yanking a grenade off his belt; he tossed it over the side as he hustled for another spot of cover.

The flash-bang went off, the Sergeant turning immediately afterwards, firing twice more at his opponents. He dove for cover, smiling grimly as bullets impacted the solid metal of the panels he’d added to certain parts of the catwalk. Casual, he kicked the lights on again, letting them flood the factory. The smoke was rising now; it wouldn’t be long before the lights made no difference at all.

A sound brought him around; he came up with his gun, firing almost before his target registered. Brenda’s gun clattered from her hands and she stared at him in blank horror, reaching briefly for the spreading blood on her chest before she collapsed.

“ _Brenda!_ ” Castor howled, outrage ringing clear. “You _$^#?@* &!_ You killed my sister!”

“And _she_ almost killed my _brother_!” Greg roared back, visions of Eddie flashing through his head. So close, it had been so close. Too close.

A renewed volley of bullets struck the panel shielding Greg from the crime lord, Castor trying to wear it down through attrition. The Sergeant crept to the edge, then rolled, cutting across the distance between himself and the next safe spot. Castor snarled, bullets spraying the wall as he sought to outgun his opponent and follow his movements. Greg tugged another grenade off his belt and pulled the pin, smiling grimly as smoke surrounded him. Even as the smoke flooded his lungs and made his eyes sting, he smiled. Leaving the grenade where it was, he crept back towards his first cover and rolled back into it. No bullets followed him; he worked his way around and out of the smoke, mouth twitching at the sight of Castor intently studying the smoke cloud, searching for him. Searching for him in the _wrong_ direction.

Five rounds fired, thirteen left. Not a single round wasted, so far as _he_ was concerned. Let Castor paint the walls with bullet holes; every shot _he_ took had meaning and purpose. Patient, Greg stayed where he was, waiting. Everything inside him wanted to _end_ this, but he couldn’t afford any mistakes at this point. _Wait…wait for it…steady, Parker._

Sparks flew from the factory’s four corners, fire behind them, its roar steadily rising. In that moment, Castor turned, saw the flames, and he understood. Understood what his opponent had done. Laughter rang, rising with the smoke. “Well played, _Parker_ , well played. Never thought you’d have the _guts_.”

Hazel closed in grief. Grief for the cop he’d been once, the cop that _never_ would have done this. He’d crossed the line – he’d never be Team One again. But maybe…maybe it was enough that they’d live. Enough that his _kids_ would live. _I told you, Castor. You cannot have my family._ Not a single word escaped – that was what Troy _wanted_. For him to screw up at this last, critical moment.

“Never thought you’d commit _suicide_ to bring _me_ down,” Castor sneered. “Not even _Archer_ wanted me that bad.”

Fire roared, the four walls igniting. The noose was complete.

“That’s true,” Greg granted, still behind his cover, hands steady on his gun. “Detective Archer let you live; he sent you to prison.” A brief pause. “I, on the other hand… I know what you’re capable of. I send you back to prison and you’ll come back in another couple of years and kill my family. I won’t let that happen.” Hazel hardened, turning to pure _topaz_. “You see, Castor, I’m not your ordinary cop.”

“Then what are you?” Derision rang – Castor still thought he was getting out of the factory alive.

Wings reappeared, flaring out, ready for action. Greg turned his head, gryphon eyes spying his opponent through the smoke. Muscles coiled, tensing for action. Inside, he accepted the truth of what he was about to say, the end of the cop he’d been once upon a time.

“I’m a gryphon.”

Castor whirled, gun rising; Greg sprang, wings fully extended as he leapt over the catwalk, plummeting towards the factory floor. Mid-air, he fired, once, twice. Then he was down and springing for his opponent, gun spinning out of his hands. Before Castor could fire, Greg was on top of him, chopping the wrist that held the weapon. A snarl echoed in the depth of the fire, Castor unleashing a punch that knocked Greg sideways; the wings vanished as the officer fell. Troy scrambled for his fallen gun, but then the cop was back, his return strike impacting Castor’s jaw.

Flames spurted, licking at the factory roof; burning tiles tumbled to the ground. Troy rolled, managing to slam Greg against one of the scorching hot tiles; the officer howled, but kicked out, breaking bones in the impact. Both men pushed themselves up, fury roiling. Then they closed once more, trading punches before Greg slithered around Castor, a fresh snarl erupting as he used a standard SRU takedown maneuver, slamming the older man to the ground.

Castor laughed, a sharp, shrill sound. “I’ve won, you know,” he yelled. “You’ve lost _everything_ , cop!”

He had. His family, his team, his reputation, his honor, his morals. But one thing remained and always would. “My family will live,” he retorted. “That’s all that matters anymore.” With that, Sergeant Greg Parker lunged, throwing himself away from the spray ‘n’ pray gun Castor had regained. Hands reached out, grabbing his Glock and he rolled back to his feet. The gun came around, firing even before it came on target.

The first round missed. The second and third rounds did not.

Panting, Greg watched Troy fold over; the crime lord hissed, trying to bring his gun up again, but already his strength was fading. A rasping sound came from the dying man, a choking, and then he collapsed. Fire boomed, but Greg ignored that. With quick steps, he approached Castor Troy and kicked the gun away from him. One foot flipped the man over on his back, then the officer breathed out. Blank, staring eyes.

He’d done it. He’d taken down Castor Troy and his sister, Brenda Troy. Hazel lifted, gazing around at the death trap he’d sealed himself inside. Yes, he’d won, but he’d done it by fighting like _Carl Elias_ , not Sergeant Gregory Parker. He had no moral ground left to speak of, not any more. He was no better than Troy, for all that he’d only been trying to protect his family.

Two choices lay before him. He could be a coward, turn his gun on himself, and escape life’s consequences. Didn’t even have to go that far – he could just let the fire do its work. Or he could live and accept the punishment he so richly deserved. For a moment, Greg wavered, then his jaw firmed and he holstered his gun. He was many things, but he would _not_ be a coward. He _would_ face whatever the future held for him – he owed his team and his family that much.

With a nod, Greg reached for his Auror badge, pulling it loose from his belt.

Then something impacted the back of his head and he fell, slumping to the ground as flames roared, engulfing the factory walls. The badge tumbled out of his hand, rolling away from the unconscious Sergeant. The roof above groaned, then caved in as fire and years of neglect won the war. As fresh oxygen hit the fire, it rolled, then boomed outwards, incinerating everything in its path.


	8. Don't Be Fooled

The call came mid-afternoon – Commander Holleran was out of surgery, awake, and asking for them. Well, asking for _Ed_ , but Team One regarded such as the same difference. Three trucks rumbled through the streets, reaching the hospital in short order. The team parked, then headed inside, armed with their commander’s room number, the files Spike had located, and a boatload of questions. With any luck, Holleran could ID his attacker and they’d have the louse cuffed and in custody by sunset.

Ed, in the lead, almost slid to a halt at the sight of a familiar silver-haired doctor inside their commander’s room. Then he forced his chin high and marched in, trailed by his equally defiant team. Dr. Larry Toth didn’t react to Team One’s open hostility; gray flicked to Commander Holleran, expectant, but also…sorrowful. Holleran’s eyes were closed, the injured officer conserving his remaining strength after the marathon of surgeries he’d just been through.

Wordy discretely cleared his throat and Ed nodded agreement. They could come back another day, after their commander had had time to rest and recover. The Sergeant gestured his team back, but before any of them could move, Toth pinned Ed with a glare. “And where do you think _you’re_ going, Sergeant Lane?”

Caught off guard, Ed blinked at the frontal assault. In the time it took him to fumble for a reply, Commander Holleran forced his eyes open and worked his way up on the hospital bed, groaning as the movement pulled at fresh stitches and staples. Dismissing Toth, Ed stepped forward. “Commander, stop. We’ll get the guy, don’t worry.”

“Sir, he’s right,” Sam chipped in. “Just get better; we’ll come back tomorrow.” He cast a wary look at his boss, but Ed didn’t care that the blond had overridden Wordy. Not with his commander so badly injured.

Despite the exhaustion written all over his face, Holleran shook his head. “No,” he rasped. “This has gone on long enough.” Grief flashed. “And…and it doesn’t matter anymore, Sergeant.”

Confusion glowed, echoed by every constable in the room. “ _What_ doesn’t matter anymore, sir?”

“Your commander’s shooter has been…dealt with,” Dr. Toth replied softly, sorrow deepening.

Not understanding, Ed stared at both men, emotion burgeoning in his chest. _Something_ was going on, something _both_ of them _knew_ about. “Sir? What do you mean, ‘this has gone on long enough’?” He drew in a careful breath. “Does it have something to do with the files we found right by where you got shot?”

For a long minute, Toth and Holleran traded looks – Ed blinked, _fairly_ sure that _Toth_ had just silently offered to take the lead and just as silently been turned _down_. Then Commander Holleran’s gaze swung to his officers and he gathered up what breath he could. “I…please, bear with me, Ed.”

“You got it, Boss,” Ed agreed at once; behind him, his teammates murmured their own agreement. Between the shooting and the surgeries, _rushing_ was _not_ something Holleran was capable of.

Another painful breath. “I told you, Ed, a bit about Castor Troy’s history.” A remembering grimace. “We…celebrated…when he was taken down. For weeks. But none of us wanted to know _who_ the arresting officer was. That way…none of us had to go out of our way to… _protect_ him.”

Ed swallowed hard. “You didn’t have to deal with the guilt when he ended up dead.”

The nod was stiff, jerky, and full of old regret.

“But you _do_ know who arrested him,” the Sergeant pressed. “You told me about how his patrol car blew up two years after the trial.”

Another nod. “Yes, Ed, I know who the arresting officer was.” A deep, pained lungful of air. “But I wasn’t told until years afterwards.”

“Years afterwards?” Jules echoed. “But why would you be told at all? If he’s _dead_ …” She froze when Holleran flinched.

“Wait, Ed,” Lou spoke up, drawing attention. “You said the _patrol car_ blew up.”

Wordy picked up the budding realization. “Commander? What about the _cop_? Was he _in_ the car?”

“Commander.” Toth stepped forward, resting a hand on Holleran’s good shoulder. “Let me.”

“No,” Holleran grated out. “You don’t know how it started.”

Dread flooded the room. “How _what_ started?” Ed half-asked, half-demanded.

* * * * *

_On Friday morning, Commander Holleran arrived for work as usual, casting Winnie a quick smile before he swept into his office to start the day’s work. With any luck he would be able to finish his pending paperwork in time to join the annual SRU outdoor lunch._

_For a moment he fantasized about springing his_ surprise _on Parker during the party, but reluctantly set the idea aside. The evaluations weren’t complete and neither was the paperwork. More importantly, the commander wasn’t blind. His Sergeant desperately needed a breather, time and space to come to grips with the events of the past several months as well as deal with the attendant stress he’d been under. No, for now Holleran would have to content himself with Parker’s able assistance with his mounds of paperwork – though it was a shame he’d have to wait longer, he had a feeling if Parker had an_ inkling _of what his commander was up to, he would scarper._

_Sitting down at his desk, Holleran sorted through his stack, organizing it into three stacks. Critical – to be dealt with first; Important – to be dealt with by himself; Standard – to be dealt with by Sergeant Parker and checked over afterwards. Though his subordinate hadn’t needed help with the upper-tier paperwork in weeks, it was still technically_ his _paperwork. A few more sheets were slyly extracted from the stack slated for his Sergeant, then Holleran set to work on the other two with a will._

_Half of the Critical stack later, the desk phone rang. The commander’s head came up and he scowled at the offending device before reluctantly reaching out and snagging it. “Holleran.”_

_“Commander?” The woman on the other end was nervous and audibly trembling. “Captain Cragen needs you down here, sir.”_

_Dark eyes narrowed. The 27th Precinct. He knew Cragen by reputation, though he’d never met the man personally. Though the captain was a good man, he tended to hang onto his initial impressions of the men under his command and gave few allowances for human fallacy. That said, Cragen was no alarmist and he ran a tight ship. For one of his people to be audibly fearful, well. Something was wrong. Very wrong._

_“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”_

* * * * *

_Commander Holleran strode into an anxious beehive of activity, doing his best to ignore the wave of whispers in his wake. Instincts were jangling louder with each step – wrong, something was_ wrong _. He just didn’t know_ what _._

_The office door he approached was plain. Unassuming. Holleran rapped on it, waiting for the call to enter before he pushed the wood open. Inside, the setup was familiar, almost identical to his own, save for the personal touches and knick-knacks. Captain Cragen looked up from his desk, expression careworn and tired. Brown eyes met Holleran’s; the other man was bald with a weathered complexion. Furrows carved themselves around his eyes and nose, as well as around his mouth and sagging chin._

_“Commander,” he greeted in a slightly booming voice._

_“Captain,” Holleran returned. One eyebrow arched. “It’s not often that Homicide calls on the SRU outside of warrants. What seems to be the problem?” Not to mention, Captain Cragen_ never _called on the SRU, even for warrants._

_Cragen grimaced and waved to the seat across from him. Holleran slipped inside, closing the door behind him, but opted to remain standing instead of sitting in the offered seat. A strange tension wound itself tight around the office; Cragen jumped when the building AC rumbled, a fan blowing air down at the men. For a long moment, the officers faced off, then Cragen huffed. “Look, Commander, you know and I know, I don’t like Parker.”_

_The commander inclined his chin. A decade earlier, Captain Donald Cragen had been_ Detective _Greg Parker’s Sergeant and he’d not been impressed with Parker’s self-destructive spiral, nor with the fact that Holleran’s predecessor had seen fit to give the recovering alcoholic a chance to become one of the ‘cool pants’. As far as Cragen was concerned, Parker’s alcoholism should have disqualified him from the SRU right out of the gate. Hence his downright_ refusal _to call the SRU in on any of his precinct’s cases, even when it might’ve been warranted._

_The captain leaned forward, pinning his guest with purpose and intent. “Now. I know you know the man. But you ever read his_ whole _personnel file?”_

_Holleran opened his mouth to reply, then the implications slammed into him. “He’s in_ prison _,” the commander hissed. “For_ life _.”_

_Cragen’s expression turned bleak. “Not anymore,” he replied, flipping open a folder on his desk; Holleran recoiled from the exposed image. The eyes were blank and staring, the face twisted in pain and despair… A human_ head _. Neatly packaged and_ shipped _._

_“Archer,” the commander rasped. Every cop in his generation knew the detective who’d taken down Castor Troy. Precious few, however, remembered the_ patrol cop _who’d_ arrested _the crime lord – he was one of those few._

_“After he retired, he moved to the States,” Cragen explained, closing the folder over that horrific image. “I made a call to local PD.”_

_“And?” Nothing good, the commander already knew._

_“His wife,” came the tight reply; Holleran choked back bile. “His daughters, one son-in-law.” A pause. “And four grandchildren. The youngest was three months old.”_

_Nausea, terror, and horror spiraled through the veteran officer and only years of training and professionalism kept his voice level and his stomach in place. “You’re sure it was Troy?”_

_Captain Cragen nodded once, mouth twisting. “Troy always did have a_ thing _for families.” He paused again, weighing his words. “I contacted the prison and they got very nervous when they found out why I was calling.”_

_Holleran’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “How long?”_

_“Possibly as long as a month,” Cragen replied. “Archer and his family died a week ago, so he’s almost certainly back in Toronto by now.” Serious, the homicide captain regarded his SRU counterpart. “I may not be Parker’s biggest fan, but I’m not about to stand by and let Troy massacre him and his family.”_

* * * * *

“It was Greg, wasn’t it,” Ed hissed. “ _Greg_ was the rookie cop who arrested Castor Troy, testified against him, and had his patrol car blow up on him.”

“How’d he survive?” Lou asked, drawing horrified looks. “Come on, guys; most people don’t survive car bombs.”

“Or land mines,” Sam muttered pointedly.

“Doesn’t count,” Lou countered instantly. “Boss hadn’t even _met_ his cousin back then.”

“I don’t know the whole story,” Holleran rasped; attention returned to the injured commander at once. “Before I became the SRU commander, I’d heard all the stories around the water cooler. Ed, I told you the most common one I heard.”

“That the patrol car blew up,” Wordy murmured, earning a nod.

“It’s quite clever,” Dr. Toth put in. “Any one hearing that story would assume that the officer in question perished, thus cementing the ‘truth’ that Troy’s revenge succeeded. Any still answering to Troy, even after his prison sentence, would convey that to him, thus allowing Parker to maintain a certain…anonymity.”

“You knew Troy was coming for him.” Terror rang, terror and absolute, utter _fury_. Ed’s eyes _blazed_ as he regarded his boss. “ _Greg_ arrested that _scum_ , you went to warn him and _that’s_ when you caught him with that _bottle_! You _knew_ he was in danger and you just sent him off to _rehab_. No protection, no safeguards, you just _kicked him to the curb and hid the truth from us!_ ”

“There was no rehab.”

Team One froze, all of them staring in horror at the psychologist.

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Ed hissed, hackles rising.

Toth’s words were precise. Direct. “Troy’s strategy was very simple, Sergeant. He _wanted_ Parker to know he was coming. He _wanted_ Parker to know he couldn’t protect his family, that the axe was about to fall.”

“The Boss is tougher than that,” Spike ground out.

“He didn’t know that, Spike,” Lou put in. “He met the Boss _once_.”

“When he was a rookie,” Wordy tacked on, tone sober.

“True,” Toth granted. “However, while Troy clearly intended to taunt and torment Parker, once his…” the psychologist grimaced, “…once his _message_ was received, there was a limited window of opportunity to pull Sergeant Parker off the front lines and safeguard his family.”

The pieces were falling into place. “So you and Greg cooked up that scene in the locker room, but _why_?” Hurt shone on Ed’s face, mirrored by his stricken teammates.

“We could’ve kept the secret,” Sam agreed, words soft with pain.

“I know,” Holleran rasped, pressing one hand to his side. Determination powered through agony. “I was going to tell you, all of you. Greg.” He stopped, gasping for air, then forged ahead. “Greg was slated for a safe house. By the time all of you came in that Monday, he’d’ve been gone.” Another necessary pause. “Ed, your promotion was a done deal. Cragen and I…” Once again, the commander stopped, panting for breath, frustration clear.

“Commander,” Toth intervened, glancing to the injured officer in clear concern. A tight nod granted permission and the psychologist turned to Team One. “A fake personnel file was produced for Sergeant Parker, one which would _replace_ his _real_ file and reduce his immediate family to his ex-wife and long-estranged son.”

“What about Sarge’s kids?” Wordy demanded.

A glance flicked in the team leader’s direction, along with a tight smile. “You yourself already know the answer to that, Constable Wordsworth. Once the children were in _your_ custody, it was simplicity itself to eliminate their original guardianship arrangements.” Returning his gaze to Ed, the doctor concluded, “Additionally, Parker’s ex-wife and son were _moved_ , on paper, from Dallas to Houston.”

“So Troy wouldn’t know where to find them,” Jules concluded, earning a nod.

“Quite so,” Dr. Toth granted. “In addition to eliminating Parker’s _immediate_ family, the fake file painted him as a talented rookie who burned out very early in his career, coasting, in essence, on the reputation he gained for arresting the infamous Castor Troy. An arrest that catapulted him to the rank of detective, where, of course, he sank into drinking and all the accompanying self-destructive behavior.”

Ed’s fists clenched in outrage at this portrait of his friend, but Jules stayed practical. “If that’s how he was portrayed, how would you explain his promotion to Sergeant?”

A tight smile. “Very good, Constable Callaghan. As part of the deception, Parker’s transfer to this unit was made to appear as though he’d been quietly shuffled out of Homicide and put on a team where he maintained his new rank and position by dint of luck, a blind eye from his superiors, and _occasional_ spurts of professionalism.” The smile turned grim. “And, of course, his sterling, soon-to-be-promoted team leader who kept his drinking in check.”

Wordy snorted derision and Ed had to agree. Sure, he’d been Greg’s sobriety buddy back in the day, but it hadn’t gone _anywhere_ until _Greg_ had been _willing_ to dump the bottle, go to rehab, and put in the work, the _effort_ required to _stay_ sober. “So the story was gonna be that Greg finally went too far and got bounced to rehab?”

“Exactly,” Toth concurred. “ _All_ of you would have known the truth, with only your fellow officers told the lie.”

“But that’s not what happened,” Lou whispered, Spike just as stricken in the background.

“So what went wrong?” Sam asked, gaze shrewd.

* * * * *

_Commander Holleran regarded the file on the screen with genuine regret. Once he clicked save, his Sergeant’s reputation would be tainted forever. He’d never get another promotion, never be considered a_ good cop _. Always, the stain of his past would lurk, along with the implication that he’d only succeeded because of_ Castor Troy _. Troy’s shadow would haunt Parker for the_ rest _of his career. The real file rested in Holleran’s desk drawer, but even once it was restored, few would believe it. Parker’s career would be all but destroyed, merely because he’d done the_ right _thing all those years ago. Done what none of his fellow officers would._

_Alone in his office, Holleran cursed Troy to the deepest, darkest depths of hell and Hades. Then he cursed himself just as badly and hit save. He’d never hated that simple confirmation screen so much before. It was done, Parker’s family was safe, but_ he _was_ finished _. At best._

_Even as the enormity of the commander’s action sank in, someone knocked at the door. Holleran looked up with a frown. On a late Sunday evening, he wasn’t even_ supposed _to be in his office. Not even_ Ben _, the on-duty dispatcher, knew he was in. After a moment, the commander pushed the drawer with Parker’s_ real _file closed, locking it, and rose, striding to the door. One hand rested on the butt of his sidearm and he nudged the door open, gaze wary._

_His visitor already had her badge out; he stiffened at the emblem on it, scowling, but stepped aside to allow the woman in. Intelligence Services. Ordinarily, he had no particular beef with the undercover department, but for the past several months, they’d been busily getting on his last nerve. Apparently, some_ genius _had decided that a veteran SRU negotiator with_ no _undercover experience_ whatsoever _would make an_ excellent _Italian mob boss._

_They’d set the cover up, then contacted him with the_ presumption _that he would instantly approve. Which he most_ certainly _had_ not _. And seeing as the_ brilliant _plan required_ his _approval, since it necessitated Parker’s transfer from the SRU to Intelligence Services, his flat refusal had stopped the undercover op_ cold _. Naturally, they’d asked again. And again, and again, until Holleran was thoroughly_ sick _of being bothered about it, but no less determined to protect his Sergeant from an utterly_ horrible _proposal._

_“The answer’s no, Detective Kastor,” he growled, having read the woman’s name off her badge. Send his best negotiator_ undercover _with no assurances he’d even get his Sergeant back at all, much less in one piece? Not a chance, even_ without _the Castor Troy factor._

_Kastor smiled. “I thought you’d say that, Commander Holleran.” She pulled out a small bundle of papers. “Particularly with that menace Castor Troy on the loose.”_

_Holleran stilled, instincts_ screaming _. She was up to something and it meant nothing good for his people. Not with that smug, superior smile on her face._

_Holding out the bundle, she said, “So I went over your head.”_

_In utter disbelief, Commander Holleran took the papers, flipping them open to find an authorization for Parker’s transfer, effective immediately, to Intelligence Services. The next page was Parker’s undercover assignment, again, effective immediately. The third, a gag order for both himself and Parker, regarding the transfer and the undercover assignment. The final page was a note from a man in the mayor’s office, a Geb Romulus, confirming that the mayor himself had approved Parker’s transfer, assignment, and the gag order in light of the Castor Troy matter._

_Holleran felt cold, his hands numb. “You can’t just transfer a veteran officer without his permission!” he blurted._

_Kastor’s smile grew wider. “We can with the Mayor and the Police Commissioner signing off on it.”_

_Fury boiled, but Holleran locked it down, only permitting it to shine in his eyes. “I’ll fight you,” he hissed._

_“I’m sure you will, commander, but you can’t stop this. And once he’s undercover, you’ll be risking_ his _life. Are you sure you want to do that?”_

* * * * *

_Greg stared down at the papers on the desk. Read through them again, though he’d already read them twice. Holleran sat in his usual chair, not bothering to hide how angry he was, though not with Greg._ Never _with Greg._

_“This is…this is already done, sir?” Anguish rang, the negotiator’s mask cleaving in twain._

_“I’m afraid so, Sergeant Parker. And the gag order is_ specifically _for your team and any immediate family members.” Holleran allowed his own anguish to shine. “I’m sorry, Greg.”_

_Parker shook his head, hurriedly wiping away a solitary tear. “It’s not your fault, sir.”_

_“Greg.” Firm, unrelenting. Holleran waited for his Sergeant to look up. “I’m going to fight this. I won’t stop until we have you back.” A pause. “And I don’t care what your handler tells you; you are still_ my _officer. You call_ me _with anything you find. For anything you need. Understand?”_

_Hazel sharpened, peeking past newborn grief. “Copy that,” Greg whispered._

_“All right, we both hate this, but we’ll need to do it right if we’re to have any chance at all of changing the mayor’s mind.” Holleran leaned forward. “Ideas?”_

* * * * *

“So you two cooked up that spectacle in the locker room and Sarge hid another bunch of bottles in his apartment for us to find,” Wordy concluded dully.

“And by the time we picked up the kids, he was under,” Ed growled, fists clenching. Behind the two men, the rest of the team fairly vibrated with helpless fury and dismay.

“Not quite that quickly,” Holleran rasped. “But otherwise…yes…” He closed his eyes an instant.

“Where’d you get the alcohol?” Spike asked suddenly.

“That morning, at a twenty-four hour grocery store,” Holleran admitted. “Along with a bottle of carbonated water. That’s what was in the bottle I ‘caught’ Greg with. The rest is what Greg used as ‘evidence’ he’d been drinking for awhile.” The lean man’s jaw tightened as he fought through frustration and pain. “Once he was under, he checked in with me once a week. We set the dead-drop up about three weeks in; his handler never knew about it. Ticked her off that _I_ was the one giving IA all the evidence they were using to catch Troy’s dirty cops, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it without blowing Greg’s cover.”

“Assuming, of course, that she _cared_ about that,” Dr. Toth muttered resentfully.

Team One froze. “She blew his cover?” Jules demanded sharply.

“Wait a second, back up, Jules,” Wordy intervened, rubbing his chin in thought. “Sir, don’t take this the wrong way, but if there’s a gag order, how’d Dr. Toth get involved?”

Despite his injuries and the situation, Commander Holleran smiled. “By obeying the _letter_ of the law.” The smile broadened into a near devious smirk. “Greg and I were legally enjoined from telling any of you or his immediate family.”

The Team One pranksters lit up with impish glee. “But _nothing_ was stopping you from telling someone outside the SRU!” Lou declared.

“And who would suspect you’d call in the guy who almost broke up our team,” Spike hissed in triumph.

Dr. Toth’s expression twitched in a smile of his own. “As I said before, I like your team. I like your Sergeant.” He nodded to Ed, knowing that all of Team One understood his meaning. “Once I knew the whole of the matter, I was only too pleased to offer my assistance.”

Sagging back against his pillows, Holleran added, “I also read Commander Locksley in.”

Sam turned away, hurt flashing. “And she didn’t say _anything_ ,” he muttered, bitterness ringing.

“Samuel.” The blond jerked, head rising and turning back. Toth met his gaze squarely. “By the time we were read in, Parker had been under a month. To reveal the truth would have endangered him and likely all of you as well. That is why your aunt said nothing.”

“You know,” the sniper whispered.

The psychologist nodded once. “I am…impressed. Appalled. Perhaps even somewhat envious of the…adventures you have had.” The doctor paused, then looked at Holleran with a significance none of Team One understood. “Commander, if none of the past five years has caused a relapse, I fail to see what _would_.”

“That may be moot at this point,” Commander Holleran murmured, the pain on his face far more than physical.

“It may be,” Toth agreed, just as sorrowful. “But I shall say it nonetheless.”

Team One traded looks, an unspoken dread rising. If there was a _gag order_ on Commander Holleran, then why was he breaking it? What had been that bit about their Sergeant’s cover? And…and why weren’t Toth and Holleran concerned about whoever had _shot_ the commander?

Ed cleared his throat, pinning both men with a glare. He didn’t say anything, his expression and clenched fists serving as his unspoken demand. Behind him, his team glared just as hard, expectation heavy.

Holleran opened his mouth, only to groan and clutch his side. Toth moved before Team One could, his gaze gentle as he rested a hand on the commander’s shoulder. “I will tell them the rest.”

“You know…” A gasp and a rasping sound. “…the rest?”

“I know enough.” With that, the psychologist turned to Team One. “Although your Sergeant did not trust his handler, when he requested that Commander Locksley and myself be read in, it was nothing more than _instinct_. No proof, merely a sense of _unease_.” Toth paused. “Then she signed a warrant for his arrest.”

* * * * *

_Dr. Larry Toth assembled the same breakfast he’d had every day for more years than he cared to count. Oatmeal, yogurt, and cinnamon-raisin toast. He smiled at his wife’s silent offer of fresh bacon, still sizzling in the pan, and nodded. She slid her spatula under two strips, lifting them and landing them on his plate._

_The doctor took his plate to the kitchen table, setting it down and arranging his silverware next to it. Starting with the bacon, Larry plowed through his meal every bit as single-mindedly as if breakfast was an essential, critical part of his job. Which it was, as far as the psychologist was concerned._

_He had just reached the toast when his cell phone rang. Lifting the device, he frowned at the blocked number, but answered nonetheless. “Hello?”_

_“Larry. I’m hope I’m not disturbing you.” Smooth, calm, and unruffled with an air of expectancy. A familiar voice, though the intonation and word choice were far different than the psychologist was used to._

_“Of course not, Elias,” he reassured the other man, abandoning his toast to head for his office. “What can I do for you?”_

_The undercover officer hesitated, weighing the best words to use. “I need you to rely a message to our…_ mutual _friend.” The tone hardened. “Pass on some…_ friendly _advice. Keep those wannabe_ SWAT cops _on a_ leash _and out of wars they have no business with.” A pause, then harshly, “You got that?”_

_Larry heard the emotion under the anger. Fear and not for himself. For the team Parker still considered his own despite the forced transfer. Despite the lies, the deception, and two_ months _spent deep undercover. A part of the psychologist wondered what it would take to_ truly _break that bond._

_“You can be sure I will pass your_ exact _words onto our mutual friend,” Toth promised._

_“Thank you, Larry.” Parker’s voice returned to the unruffled elegance he used as part of his Elias persona, but Toth heard the genuine gratitude lurking under the surface. The line clicked in his ear and the doctor frowned. What were the_ odds _that an undercover officer’s own_ team _was sent in on some kind of operation where they were almost certain to encounter their former boss? Possible, but he’d stopped believing in coincidences right about the time he’d found out magic was_ real _._

_“Dear, are you going to eat your toast?”_

_Larry turned away from his desk and smiled warmly at his wife. “Perhaps you could heat it up and add another two strips of bacon?” he asked hopefully._

_“To go?”_

_She knew him so well. “Please.”_

* * * * *

_After delivering Parker’s message to Commander Holleran, Dr. Toth ghosted to a position where he could watch Team One’s arrival. He had other duties of course, but his curiosity had been piqued by Parker’s enduring loyalty to his former team. Had that bond survived on_ their _side? he wondered._

_Watching them from a distance could not, of course, directly answer his question, but the observation alone would be instructive. Valuable in terms of how they were coping in their Sergeant’s absence. Ideally, they had moved on – Parker’s forcible transfer carried no end date and despite all of Holleran’s strident efforts, the Mayor and the Police Commissioner were singularly uninterested in ending Parker’s surprisingly successful foray into uncovering dirty cops in the Toronto Police Department._

_Ed Lane was the first to arrive and the emotional_ torment _on his face… It spoke more eloquently than words ever could. This was a man dying slowly and by inches. Parker’s absence had ripped a hole in Lane’s life that nothing could fill. Fictive Kin. Family by choice in every way that mattered. Part of the doctor objected; this was a SWAT team, not a_ family _. And yet…those very bonds were how Team One had survived in the magical world. Back to back, with no one else they could depend on. Was it really such a surprise that they’d become so co-dependent under the circumstances?_

_The rest of the team was no better than their Sergeant. They needed Parker just as much as_ he _needed them. A raw, primal need that Toth doubted they were even consciously aware of. Just a sense of…something missing. Something precious and irreplaceable. Ironically, Parker was handling the situation better than his teammates, though that was a state of affairs that could not last. Sooner or later, that_ need _would reassert itself and Parker would be in just as dire straits as his team._

_With a frown, Dr. Toth departed. Perhaps it was time to see what strings_ he _could pull…_

* * * * *

Ed reeled. There was no other way to put it. “That was Greg.” The barest whisper, in a voice he didn’t even recognize.

“What was?” Sam asked the question, but his teammates were just as curious. Just as anxious.

The Sergeant barely heard the blond sniper. His eyes were fixed on Holleran and Toth. “I’m right, aren’t I? _That’s_ who he is.”

For a moment, all was silence, then Toth tipped his chin and Ed felt his world…shatter. What had he done…what had _they_ done? “I broke his cover, didn’t I?”

“Ed?” Wordy’s voice rang with concern.

“I saw him and I… I just called him by his _name_.” Anguish flowed over the former team leader. “He saved my life and…”

“Ed.” Commander Holleran’s firmness dragged his chin up, forced his words to a halt. “Greg never used his distress code. As far as I know, his cover was never broken.”

Again, the bald sniper froze. “ ‘Was’?” he croaked. “Does that mean it’s…over? Greg’s coming home?” Hope echoed and dread. Because why would Holleran look so somber if Greg was coming _home_?

“Sergeant Lane.” All attention shifted to Dr. Toth. “Before, I implied that Sergeant Parker’s handler did not care about breaking his cover.”

Yes, he had – and Jules had pressed him on it, but then Wordy had sidetracked them and Ed had almost forgotten about it. “And?” Ed questioned.

Bitterness flashed in the doctor’s gray eyes. “Sergeant Parker’s handler is Brenda Kastor.”

Just like that, the final piece clicked into place. The puzzle was complete, its image more vivid and horrific than Ed had ever _dreamed_ of. “She sent _us_ in,” Ed concluded, voice hollow. “His own _team_.”

“But _why_?” Wordy demanded, bewilderment shining. “She had to know we’d _recognize_ him.”

“Wordy,” Lou intervened, shaking his head. “She’s _Castor Troy’s sister_.”

The brunet went ashen at the reminder, the rest of their team just as stricken.

“It was a trap.” Was that dead, dull voice _his_ voice? “The whole thing was a trap.”

“I’m afraid so,” Toth confirmed softly. “It seems Castor Troy did not care to test his mettle against Sergeant Parker _and_ his team. So he sought to cut Parker off, isolate him from his support.”

“But Sarge still had Holleran,” Jules pointed out.

“Until today,” Sam whispered.

Holleran shook his head. “Today was my fault,” he rasped. “Greg contacted me about Kastor as soon as he confirmed she and Troy were siblings.” Determined, he pulled in a fresh lungful of air. “I…I wanted to catch her, arrest her before she could get him killed.” A grimace twisted the black man’s jaw. “Instead she showed up with her brother; she pinned me down and Troy flanked me while I was trying to get a shot at _her_.”

“The admitting doctor has already identified Anthony Marconi as the man who brought your commander in,” Toth put in.

Ed nodded, utterly numb. Behind him, Spike remarked, “The Boss had him keeping an eye out, didn’t he?”

A faint smile peeked through the grimace. “Yes,” Holleran whispered. “Greg judged the Troy siblings better than I did.”

“Or maybe he just knew you’d be mad enough after two months to do something stupid,” Wordy opined, blithely overlooking the fact that he’d just insulted his boss’s boss.

The commander managed a chuckle, then groaned and clutched his side. “True,” he gritted out. “But I’m afraid I wasn’t the only one to act…rashly.”

For the umpteenth time, Ed froze, fresh horror cascading down his back and chills running up his spine. “Sir?”

“Greg…arranged a meet between himself and Kastor,” Holleran gasped out. “He knew she’d send her brother instead.” A hand waved in Toth’s direction. “After he sent the message to Kastor, he sent a second message to Dr. Toth, telling him what he’d done and…” Frustration shone as the commander was forced to halt for lack of oxygen.

“And sending me the address _for_ the meet,” Dr. Toth finished smoothly.

“Where?” Sam barked, already shifting backwards. The rest of Team One snapped on full alert. They’d let their boss down for the past two _months_. They weren’t going to let him down for another _second_.

“There.” Raw grief and despair rang in Commander Holleran’s voice as he pointed to the television mounted on the wall behind Team One. They whirled to see a live news report from the scene of a fire – the reporter on the screen stood at a safe distance from a burning factory, gaze solemn as he spoke into his microphone. The screen cut to a camera from a chopper above the fire, giving Team One a perfect view of the blazing factory roof.

“…at this time, we do not know if anyone was inside the factory when it caught fire,” the reporter informed his stricken audience. “However, some witnesses we’ve interviewed claim they heard gunshots coming from inside the building before and after the fire started. The firefighters on scene have informed me that they’ll have to wait for the fire to burn itself out and for the building to cool before it’s safe to enter and determine if there are any casualties. Tim? Back to you.”

The station cut to the studio, though the helicopter’s camera view remained on screen. “Thank you, John. That was John Statton, reporting live from the Scarborough factory blaze…”

Holleran muted the TV, the sudden silence utterly…deafening. Ed stared at the images, a sense of absolute loss welling up.

“His badge,” Spike piped up. “Come on, guys, even if he didn’t have his phone, the badges have Portkeys in ‘em, too.”

“At Commander Holleran’s request, I contacted Commander Locksley and asked her to check the safe house,” Dr. Toth informed them, voice quiet. “There was no one there and none of the wards had been disturbed.”

Slowly, Sergeant Ed Lane turned towards his boss, taking in the grief on the commander’s face. “No…no…he’s not gone. It’s just…he’s just… He’ll call soon, right?”

“Ed. I want to keep hoping, but he should’ve checked in by now.” A deep, shuddering breath. “I’ve confirmed that first responders heard gunfire when they arrived, but it stopped shortly before the roof caved in.”

_Greg…_ The last words he’d ever spoken to his friend had been in anger. Frustration and anger, that Greg kept crawling back to that _bottle_ instead of _getting better_. But…but he’d never _touched_ that bottle and Ed hadn’t _realized that_. _None_ of them had…they’d _believed_ the _lies_ Greg had been _forced_ to tell them, failed to see beyond the façade to the _truth_. How _could_ he have believed that of his friend, his _brother_? Greg _knew_ what that bottle had cost him, why would he _ever_ want to go back to _that_?

And now…now he would never get the chance to apologize for what he’d said. To shake Greg and yell at him and scream his outrage for being _lied_ to. He would never get the chance to hear Greg laugh again, never watch in private awe as his negotiator boss broke through a subject’s single-minded haze and resolved yet another hot call. No more teases in the morning as he ghosted in, a gleam in Greg’s eyes greeting him. No more heart-to-hearts in the locker room, both men sorting out the chaos of life and hot calls. No more sensing Greg’s emotions and wryly reminding him to stop ‘broadcasting’. None of that. Because Greg was gone…Greg was _dead_.

“ _Sarge_ …”

Broken loss, newborn grief far worse than any of them had ever felt before. To nearly lose Lou, to nearly lose _‘Lanna_ , that had been bad. To lose Lance, that had been worse. But this? Greg was their heart, their center, every _bit_ as much _their_ anchor as _they_ were _his_. To lose _Greg_ was to lose themselves. And while they could – and _would_ – survive the loss, they were no longer complete. No longer whole – sentenced to empty half-lives by the removal of their guiding light, their cornerstone.

Ed felt it in that moment, a piece of his _soul_ ripping away, _forever_. He turned away from his boss, away from _Toth_ , and looked up, meeting Wordy’s blank, half-dead eyes. His gaze traveled to Spike and Lou; the pranksters huddled together as if freezing cold; then to Sam and Jules – the couple shifted further apart, as though they suddenly couldn’t stand to be _together_ without the _Boss_.

“He…he can’t be gone,” Spike whimpered.

“Spike…” Wordy’s voice ached with that same pain.

“No, guys, we gotta _find_ him,” Spike insisted. “He…he wouldn’t let us down like this; he wouldn’t _die_ on us – he…he doesn’t have permission!” But even as he spoke, tears flowed freely down his face; he didn’t fight when Lou grabbed him in a rough hug, the less-lethal specialist’s face just as wet with grief. Toth and Holleran were forgotten as Team One instinctively turned to each other, struggling with a loss that was only just sinking in.

Ed reached for the ‘team sense’, mentally _screaming_ Greg’s name. _‘Don’t be dead, don’t be dead, you are_ not _allowed to_ die _on us, Greg!’_

But all his cries slammed into thin air; not blocked, just… _not there_.

Raw denial fueled his second scream. _‘Gregory Allen Parker, don’t you_ dare _ignore me! Don’t you_ dare _die on me! You’re not allowed, do you hear me? You’re_ not allowed to die on us!!! _Answer me, dammit!’_

“Ed,” Wordy rasped, clinging to him, pulling him into the team huddle. “Stop, just stop. He’s gone.”

No…he couldn’t be…he couldn’t let his friend die, his brother in all but blood. _‘Greg? Please…please don’t be dead… Please, just come back to us…we’ll figure it all out, I promise, Boss. Boss? Boss?_ Greg _…?’_

And still…there was nothing. No best friend, no patiently amused superior, no gleam that just _had_ to be Greg’s wild side, still there, if tamed. Ed felt his knees buckle, felt his teammates catch him. The sobs finally wrenched free.

Greg Parker was dead.

_~ Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Fade to Black* Feel free to rant and rave, but be warned: my draenei Death Knight Tinuvial from _World of Warcraft_ has a fleet of drakes (and other mounts) at her back and all of them eat flames for breakfast! Tinuvial herself has been known to wield Quel'Delar, the Prismatic Dragon Blade, and her frost powers often extinguish a fair few flames herself. However, be assured; we will not have the dread Lich King Arthas Menethil show up and 'resurrect' Greg as a Death Knight. I'm not that cruel; I may love the DK role, but their storyline is quite tragic.
> 
> In the meantime, despite recent events, this series is not over and we shall be continuing onwards. Accordingly, "When In Rome" starts on Tuesday, November 10th 2020.
> 
> See You on the Battlefield!


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